


pull it out of park, put it in drive (i can feel your heart beatin’ with mine)

by shawsameen



Category: Elite (TV)
Genre: Exes to Lovers, F/M, Getting Back Together, Mutual Pining, Post-Break Up, photographer!samuel, the miniest of mini road trips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:00:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29117886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shawsameen/pseuds/shawsameen
Summary: In the two years since they broke up, Samuel and Carla haven’t figured out how to properly get over one another.It takes them less than twoweeksto realize that maybe they’re inevitable, though.
Relationships: Carla Rosón Caleruega/Samuel García Domínguez
Comments: 84
Kudos: 84





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> here we are with another fix it fic except this is absolutely not set in canon whatsoever (there are some elements, but also kind of not really). i don’t know how any of this became a result of talking about samuel being a photographer, but it did and i’m excited about the rest of the story. with that being said this isn’t nearly as planned out or outlined as sunflower was so i can’t really guarantee anything frequent, although fingers crossed anyway!!

The thing about working for himself is that Samuel’s daily routine doesn’t really come close to resembling an actual routine at all. He’s pretty diligent when he actually has to be on location for a job, but there aren’t any rules to follow when he’s in-between work or otherwise stuck at home editing pictures. After spending a great chunk of his life working himself to the brink of exhaustion beneath people who couldn’t care any less, he admittedly takes advantage of the fact that he’s now his own boss.

He can wear what he wants (usually nothing more than his underwear), eat what he wants (and leave the empty to-go containers sitting on his already crowded desk for days, too), take as many breaks as he wants (a lot), and, what is probably the best thing about being a freelance photographer, sleep in for however long he wants ( _hours_ ). 

Of course, he used to be slightly more disciplined. Just two years ago, he would at least get dressed for a day working from his home studio, and while his space would probably still be cluttered with cameras and film and notes, there wouldn’t be any boxes of food lying around, because they’d be sitting in the trash. But things change. Samuel knows that better than most. 

The sleeping in, however, has only gotten more intense, so he’s still out cold at twelve p.m. on a Wednesday when something suddenly—and _loudly_ —blares beside his head, jolting him into consciousness. 

It takes him a second to register through his pounding heart and groggy, confused panic that it’s just his phone ringing on his nightstand. When he does, he grumbles out a curse, then sighs another one once he cracks an eye open and reads the name listed on the caller I.D.

Samuel seriously considers silencing his phone and going back to sleep, but he knows that just means he’ll have an even ruder awakening in about fifteen minutes when his pissed-off friend resorts to pounding at his door instead. He compromises by letting his eyes fall closed again as he swipes his thumb across the screen and holds the phone to his ear. 

“What?”

“What do you mean, ‘what’? You can’t answer texts anymore, so I have to resort to calling,” Guzmán shoots back. “Hello to you too, by the way.”

“Mmh,” Samuel mumbles incoherently, already drifting off again. 

He’s abruptly yanked out of it by Guzmán’s loud, disbelieving voice. “Fuck, Samu, don’t tell me you’re seriously still in bed. It’s past noon!”

Samuel’s eyebrows furrow into a frown. Defiantly, he snuggles further into his mattress as if his friend can even see him do it. “So? I make my own hours, I can sleep in as long as I want to.”

“Not when you’re supposed to meet me for lunch at one. Or did you forget about that?” Guzmán says, tone mostly dry, although Samuel isn’t so out of it that he can’t detect the slight edge to it. 

His eyes pop open at the same time as his brain finally puts the pieces together. Right, he _did_ make plans with Guzmán last week to meet up this afternoon, and also right, he completely forgot about them.

“Shit,” he breathes quickly, shooting up. “Okay, I’m awake.”

Guzmán makes a noise of approval that somehow still sounds disapproving. Still, he lightheartedly adds, “Try not to be late. I don’t need people thinking I’m being stood up or something, let alone by you.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Samuel says with a laugh, but as he hangs up and glances around his room in the ensuing silence, he can’t help but wince at the comment. There are clothes scattered everywhere. He isn’t even sure what’s clean and what’s dirty; shit, he can’t even remember the last time he did laundry. His entire place screams _bachelor_ , actually, but not the kind that means he’s going to be contacted by representatives of some shitty American reality show anytime soon. 

He winces even harder once he shuffles into his bathroom and gets a good look at himself in the mirror. There’s nothing he can do about the haircut he’s in desperate need of, but the six-day stubble that honestly resembles more of the beginnings of a beard can be managed, at least. After quickly shaving it off, he hops in the shower. 

While the state of his apartment is in a steady decline, he refuses to not keep himself clean, at the very least. That probably has more to do with the fact that his job requires him to see other people semi-regularly than anything, but whatever. Still, showers are weird for him. They’re meant to rejuvenate and relax, and yet, lately, whenever Samuel steps out of one, he only feels tired, tensed-up, and hollow. 

It’s ridiculous how every time he opens his eyes after rinsing his hair, he still expects to see different bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and body wash sitting on the rack next to his own. Sometimes, he thinks he can still smell them, too. 

Obviously, this feeling isn’t just limited to his bathroom. It follows him throughout this entire place. He still expects to find dresses and blouses hanging in his closet; the smell of soft but dizzying perfume in the air; grocery lists in big handwriting that switches between print and cursive stuck to the fridge. You’d think it would be the worst in the bedroom—and don’t get him wrong, it still sucks—but for some reason, it’s the _shower_ where everything always seems so overwhelming. Maybe it’s because it’s so small in here, and everything gets trapped in the steam along with him. 

Whatever the case, it’s why he usually keeps his showers incredibly short now. He’s out, dried off, and dressed in less than ten minutes, and while he does spare a few more to have some coffee so that he feels at least somewhat normal when he sees Guzmán, he still beats his friend to the restaurant downtown. 

His phone chirps shortly after he’s seated at an outdoor table, though. He fishes it out and reads the text, frowning immediately. 

_Sorry, running a little late, my meeting got pushed back unexpectedly._

Samuel doesn’t point out how _Guzmán_ was the one rushing _him,_ instead replying with a simple thumbs-up emoji. The literal wake up call was necessary, because Samuel definitely would have slept straight through this entire thing otherwise, and it’s not like it’s Guzmán’s fault that he’s stuck in a meeting. In the meantime, Samuel decides to catch up on his emails since his plans to do so during breakfast were disrupted by forgotten ones for lunch. 

There’s mostly just superstitious chain mail from his mom that he typically lies to her about passing on because it’s easier than listening to a lecture on bad luck, though there’s also an update from Nano about his stay in Morocco that he quickly replies to, as well as another from his latest potential client. He’s some guy who wants Samuel to photograph his girlfriend’s upcoming birthday party. The last thing Samuel had sent him was his going rates, which aren’t exactly cheap, but he also got the impression from what little information this guy has already given him that he’s rich enough to afford ten photographers if he wanted.

> **From:** **realyeray100@gmail.com**
> 
> **To: samuelgdphotography@gmail.com**
> 
> I’ll pay however much you want, as long as it’s perfect. I’ve rented out the entire lounge at Hotel Fuse Puerta de América. It’s going to be a surprise party, so I definitely want some photos of Carla when she first walks in. The party is next Saturday at eight, but I’ll be there half an hour early to make sure everything is in order. Does that work for you?

Samuel instantly stops at that name, his thumb hovering over the screen. _Carla._ It echoes throughout his mind, in tandem with his heartbeat; rings in his ears and sends him careening into memories before he can even stop himself. 

( _“You know, normally, the birthday girl doesn’t have to make her own birthday_ cake. _”_

_When Samuel turns around from where he’s digging inside of their pantry, Carla’s got a teasing smirk on her lips that she’s not trying very hard to suppress whatsoever. She’s also not trying very hard—or at all—to help him find any of the ingredients required to bake a boxed cake either, partly because she’s making a point about how Samuel is terrible at keeping their kitchen properly stocked, and partly because she just likes being a brat._

_He’ll never admit it to her, but he sort of likes it, too._

_“Hey, I initially planned on doing it myself, but then I figured, this way you can’t make fun of me if it comes out like shit,” he replies._

_“As if that’s going to stop me from making fun of you,” Carla says with a scoff, walking over so that she’s almost crowding him against the counter. His hands naturally fall to her waist as she picks up the box of chocolate cake mix and inspects it with a dubious wrinkle of her nose. “When did you buy this, anyway?”_

_“I don’t know. I think I just randomly threw it into the cart a few weeks ago, maybe?”_

_She angles the box so that she can look at the bottom of it, her eyebrows shooting up at the same time as a disbelieving laugh bubbles out of her. “This expired in August, Samuel.”_

_“What? No, let me see,” he argues, and she easily hands the box over for him to check. The date confirms that the mix did, in fact, expire three months beforehand, and Carla’s arching an eyebrow at him once he takes his eyes off of it. “Okay, fine. But it’s still good, though.”_

_“What part of ‘expired’ did you get that from?”_

_“Come on. This shit is full of so many preservatives it lasts months after the expiration date.” He sighs and gives her a smile when all she does is continue looking at him skeptically. “Okay, I can run to the store and pick up a new one. Or one of those pre-made cakes, if you really don’t want to bake it.”_

_A notch instantly forms between her brows. She shakes her head. “It’s been storming like crazy for two days straight. I’m not letting you drive out in that.”_

_“But it’s not fair that you have to spend your birthday locked up in here. I just want to do something nice.”_

_Carla’s expression softens. She lifts her hand, sliding it over his cheek and ear until her fingers are smoothing into his hair. “You know I don’t need anything fancy or over the top. I like being here, just with you.”_

_Of course, he does know this. It won’t ever stop him from wanting to give her everything he can, though._

_He rests his forehead against hers. “Are you sure? I really don’t mind driving in the rain. It’s not even as bad anymore.”_

_“The streets are literally flooded,” she points out drily. His eyes are closed, so he can’t see the smile to match her voice, but he can imagine it all the same. “And you’re a terrible swimmer.”_

_“But—”_

_“Shut up,” she huffs softly, cutting him off with a kiss. It’s chaste and innocent, but it does it’s job. His eyes slowly flutter open as she pulls back, finding the smile on her face no longer teasing, but tender. “Now let’s make this thing and hope we don’t get botulism.”_

_“It’ll be fine. I’m sure I’ve eaten something way worse than three month-old cake mix in the nearly two decades I’ve been alive,” he giggles._

_“It would explain a lot.”_

_She darts out of reach of the pinch he aims at her hip with a smirk and heads to one of the cabinets on the opposite side of the kitchen, immediately pulling out the vegetable oil that she had just watched him spend close to five minutes looking for._

_“What?” She asks, deceptively innocent, in the wake of the completely flat look he’s giving her once she turns back around._

_“You’re ridiculous,” he simply replies, shaking his head with a fond laugh._

_“Watching you get lost in your own kitchen is fun. Just pray we have eggs,” Carla says as she opens the fridge._

_They only have one. The recipe calls for two. Carla glances between both the egg and the box before laughing._

_“Shit. Want to risk it?”_

_“Since we’re apparently risking_ so _much already, we might as well,” Samuel teases, the slap she aims at his shoulder not stopping him from grabbing a mixing bowl and joining her._

_A half an hour and a very minor cake batter fight later, Samuel is setting the timer for forty-five minutes while Carla is putting the tray in the oven. Strands of hair are falling out of her ponytail and there’s a smear of chocolate on her cheek and chin. God, she looks beautiful._

_She’s grinning, unaware of his quiet awe of her as she closes the oven, straightens, and asks, “So, what do we do while we wait?”_

_Instead of answering, Samuel just encircles his fingers around her wrist and lightly tugs her to him, swallowing the surprised noise she makes as he kisses her deeply and catching her against his chest when she stumbles half a step._

_“What was that for?” The question isn’t more than a whisper on account of their noses still touching, but he can still detect her amusement._

_He just shakes his head. “No reason,” he says. “Happy birthday.”_

_Carla’s lips curve into a soft, loving smile, contrasting the sly glint in her eyes that appears after searching his face. “Come, I think I know how to pass the time,” she murmurs, and it’s her turn to take him by the wrist now as she leads him into the living room. Samuel goes easily, and falls down even easier when she stops in front of the couch and pushes him down onto the cushions. When she straddles his thighs, he leans up and swipes his tongue over the batter on her chin._

_“You’re a mess,” he chuckles, even though he’s pretty sure there’s flecks of the same stuff in his hair. His shirt is definitely stained too, but he doesn’t really care, especially not when Carla slides her hands beneath the hem and pushes it up so she can rake her nails across his abdomen._

_“There was raw egg in that,” she tuts, not sounding as disapproving as she probably means to._

_Still, Samuel rolls his eyes. “A drop of uncooked batter isn’t going to kill me.”_

_“Mm,” Carla hums neutrally, probably to be a brat again, but Samuel isn’t all that interested in play fighting with her anymore as she rolls her hips down, and—)_

And that’s precisely where present-day Samuel finally cuts his thoughts off, because he definitely shouldn’t be reminiscing about the sex he used to have with his girlfriend almost two years ago. 

_Ex_. Ex-girlfriend.

Samuel briefly squeezes his eyes shut as he lets out a long exhale. That was the last birthday he and Carla spent together—the last out of four. It’s hard to accept the fact that they’ve been broken up for only half the time they were actually together. Sometimes it feels like a lifetime ago, and others, like right now, it feels as if it just happened yesterday. 

You’d think he would have gotten a fucking grip by now. Carla’s number has long since been deleted from his phone (which had been more of a symbolic gesture, since he still has every single digit memorized), and he stopped checking her social media the third month after they broke up. He’s done practically everything he possibly can to get up, get on, and get over her: letting his friends set him up on dates, drinking a tad too excessively when he accepted the fact that he _didn’t_ want to date again, living in denial, then hurt and anger, and now… now he’s just _living,_ because he doesn’t think he’s even remotely close to acceptance yet. He wonders if he ever will be—if he’s going to lapse into memories every time he so much as reads or hears her name. 

It’s not like _Carla_ is a name reserved only for her. There are other ones that exist, specifically Yeray’s Carla. Their birthdays may be close, sure, but _Carla’s_ is in November, almost two weeks away from now. And she hates surprise parties. Anyone dating her surely would know that, so Samuel forcibly gets himself together as he types out a quick, affirmative response to Yeray’s email and puts his phone away in time to wave down Guzmán, who’s just stepped out of a cab.

Samuel will probably have a deep ache in his chest by the time the party’s over on Saturday, but turning down a job because he’s still hung up on the first girl he ever fell in love with is a new low, even for him.

He can survive one night. It’ll be fine.

*

Yeray has been practically glued to his phone all week. Normally, the lack of attention from him wouldn’t bother Carla; considering the fact that he usually dotes on her to a smothering extent, it would even be more than welcome. 

And it _had_ been welcome, at first. She likes him, obviously, because he’s nice and—well, because they’ve been dating for a year and a half now and it’d be stupid of her to stay with someone she didn’t, but that doesn’t mean they have to spend every waking moment together. So when he stopped with the expensive dinner dates and gifts and everything else he likes to shower her with, Carla had taken full advantage of it without stopping to wonder why… that is, until she started to get suspicious. 

Like any other woman faced with their boyfriend suddenly turning secretive, Carla initially thought he might have been cheating on her. However, she dismissed it almost immediately. Yeray is pretty obsessed with the idea of them being the “perfect couple”, to the point that she’s positive he’d never do anything to jeopardize that. He’s loyal to her, that much is certain.

He is also an incredibly terrible liar, which is why it hadn’t taken Carla all that long to figure out the real reason why he’s been acting weird. 

She would have thought that after the amount of time they’ve been together, he would know that a surprise party is and always will be the last way she wants to spend her birthday, but that’s probably giving him too much credit. The dinners and gifts, while grand and beautiful, aren’t necessarily her style either. Yeray doesn’t seem to get that she couldn’t care any less about being flaunted about or _worshipped,_ but every time she tries to bring it up with him, he just insists that she deserves to be treated like a literal goddess. 

It’s during these times where she gets swept up in memories of lazy and simple days in a small, cozy apartment, because Carla knows that money isn’t needed to make someone feel that level of special. Not even close, not even at all. 

She licks her lips and snaps herself out of traveling down that particular road before it’s too late, and since that is never enough to get her to stop thinking about _him,_ she focuses on Yeray where he’s leaning against the counter across from her instead. 

He thinks she’s too preoccupied with handling work things on her laptop to pay him much mind, so he’s being less guarded than usual as he grins down at whatever he’s reading on his phone. The surprise party must be happening soon then, even though her birthday isn’t until the eleventh. This weekend, she guesses, because they aren’t going to be able to see each other around her actual birthday. It’s how she’d figured out he was even throwing her this thing in the first place. He made such a huge deal out of her birthday last year, and when she told him that the opening of the new winery would take up too much of her time to properly celebrate _this_ year, he barely even argued. Like she said, he’s a shitty liar. 

Well, whatever. The only reason why she hasn’t confronted him about the party is that she figures just going along with it will be infinitely less of a headache. If it makes him happy, she supposes she can indulge him one time. 

He’s just trying to be a thoughtful boyfriend. She suddenly feels guilty, like she normally does whenever she starts to have less-than-pleasant thoughts about their relationship. Yeray has never been anything but sweet to her, and here she is, basking in how he’s been too busy to spend time with her lately. 

So she clears her throat gently and lowers the screen of her laptop a little in order to see him better and says, “I was thinking, maybe we could do something tonight? Since the next few weeks are going to be so busy for both of us, I thought it’d be nice. A quiet night in for once.” He nods along, attention still on his phone. “I don’t know, maybe we could make something for dinner?”

Yeray finally looks up at her, a confused frown marring his features. “But neither of us even knows how to cook.”

Carla lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “That doesn’t mean we can’t try. Plus, I do know some things, you know.” 

“You do?” She nods, and he smiles up at her, teasing. “And who taught you these things, hm?”

She hopes Yeray doesn’t notice how her eyelashes flutter. He doesn’t, of course, but it seems obvious and loud and like it immediately gives her away regardless, so she offers him an overly bright grin and lets her hand fall atop his just in case. 

“That doesn’t matter. What do you say?”

His expression shifts into something slightly uneasy. “I don’t know, Carla, I hate cooking. It’ll probably be a mess, the food will be burnt or over seasoned. It won’t taste good.”

“That’s what makes it fun,” she insists.

Yeray cocks an eyebrow at her like she’s being weird. She sighs, deciding to drop it. It was stupid of her to even bring it up anyway, on top of just being a cowardly way to get stuck in her nostalgia without feeling like shit about it, or thinking about—

Well, thinking about Samuel. She can stop being cowardly about not saying his name, too. 

“You’re right,” she says, “we can just order in, then. Maybe rent a movie?”

His phone beeps again. He picks it up, pushing off of the counter and idly dropping a kiss on her hairline as he responds to whoever just emailed or texted him. “Sounds great, babe.”

Carla presses her lips together and refocuses her attention on her laptop as he walks into the other room. Yeray is never going to be Samuel, she knows. He’s never going to replace him. 

She just doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to figure out whether that’s a good or bad thing. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay and sorry the chapter isn’t even long to make up for it, i initially planned on extending it to the party but figured it would be neater to do that next chapter (which shaves off the more time it would’ve taken me to post so maybe that’s a good thing lol). hopefully now that the ball’s beginning to roll things will pick up and my updates won’t be so far between 💙

To Guzmán’s credit, he waits until they’re both finished with their food to bring up the same topic he always does whenever Samuel hangs out with him. 

“So, one of Marina’s friends just broke up with her boyfriend.”

As he takes a sip from his beer, Samuel gives a neutral hum to match Guzmán’s newfound, nonchalant approach to setting him up with girls—because while _Samuel_ had realized quickly that he wasn’t interested in dating yet, and his friends had eventually learned to accept that fact, Guzmán is the exception. 

The stubborn, tenacious exception, because no matter how many times Samuel shoots his attempts down, no matter how many arguments they get into over Carla and Samuel’s “refusal to get the fuck over her”, he keeps trying. This is a dance they know well, and one that Samuel’s exhausted of doing.

He doesn’t know why he keeps agreeing to these hangouts when he knows how they’ll inevitably end. 

“They were dating for a few years,” Guzmán continues. “She’s cute. I could have Marina give her your number.”

Samuel makes a face as he pulls the bottle away from his lips, swallowing down the mouthful of alcohol. “Why would she want to start dating immediately after ending a long term relationship?”

“Well, she probably doesn’t,” Guzmán says with a shrug, “but I figured it would be different with you, since you can relate.” Here, his voice finally takes on that familiar, impatient edge. “Even if your breakup did happen two years ago.”

He wants to say _it hasn’t been two full years yet_ , but Samuel knows that won’t help his case in the slightest, so he scowls instead. “Don’t.”

“Samu, you can’t wallow in this forever. You dated, you broke up, now you move on,” Guzmán retorts, gesturing vaguely. 

“It’s not as fucking easy as you seem to think it is. I loved her.”

“I’m not saying you didn’t. I’m saying, this whole depressed thing was understandable the first few months after she dumped you, but now it’s pathetic.”

“Fuck you,” Samuel bites out, the words dangerously low. His hand is gripping his beer so tightly that the glass is probably two seconds away from shattering, but he doesn’t care; his palm being sliced open would be a feeling more preferable to this _._

“No, fuck _you_ ,” Guzmán says. “I’m tired of watching you mope without trying to do anything to get better. If you don’t want to be happy, then get angry again, get pissed off, I don’t care. Just be something other than sad, man, Christ.”

The last few words come out loud and frustrated, earning their table a few looks from the people sitting around them. Samuel glares them down as a brief, tense silence settles between him and Guzmán, something that might be guilt passing over the latter’s features before he lets out a rough exhale. 

“I’m sorry,” he starts in a calmer, lower voice. “I wasn’t trying to be a dick—”

“Yes, you were,” Samuel interjects plainly, but his words lack any heat now. The corner of his mouth is turned up in a faint smile; a sign of truce, more than anything.

Guzmán huffs a laugh. “Okay, yeah, I was. But I’m still sorry. I’m just trying to help.”

“I know.” And Samuel _does—_ he realizes now that the reason why he still agrees to get lunch or go out with Guzmán is because no matter how much this subject makes him mad, Guzmán’s refusal to let Samuel feel sorry for himself is the only thing keeping him still sane nowadays. “I know I haven’t been making it easy, either.”

“No, you haven’t,” Guzmán agrees with a smile. It fades after a moment as he grows thoughtful. “I just don’t want you to give up, and it seems like you have already. We’re young, dude. I know you feel like shit, and I know it seems like no one’s ever going to measure up to Carla, but man, _she_ let you go. You gotta let her go, too. I guarantee you that there’s gonna be another girl out there who will make all this heartbreak seem stupid in the future.”

Samuel thinks his words over for a moment before scoffing wryly. “I didn’t know you could be so sensitive. We could’ve avoided the argument if you said all of that first.”

“It’s buried beneath several layers of instinctive conflict,” Guzmán replies, chuckling along with him. 

They’re interrupted by the waitress returning to collect their plates. Samuel stares at some random point on the table, distractedly spinning his beer around in the ring of condensation puddled beneath it, vaguely registering Guzmán making small talk with the woman but not really paying attention to what they’re saying. 

He knows Guzmán is right, that he can’t wallow forever. He also knows two years is more than enough time to move on from an ex. The thing is that Carla isn’t just _an ex._ She’s _Carla_ : his first serious girlfriend, his first love, his first of so many things. Maybe part of him is just afraid that she’s going to be his last too, and not in the same way he once thought she would be. 

“I don’t want you to give Marina’s friend my number, though,” Samuel says once the waitress is gone. “I’m not really interested in the whole mutual rebound thing.”

“But Samu, maybe meaningless sex is what you need right now,” Guzmán replies, smirking when Samuel just gives him a look in response. “Fine, fine, you’re probably right. Plus, Marina told me I was an idiot when I even suggested it in the first place, I was just hoping you’d say yes anyway and we could force her to agree.” 

“If you thought me agreeing was going to work, you really are an idiot.”

“I never denied it.” He reaches over with a grin and lightly smacks Samuel on the arm. “Whatever, you can find a fuckbuddy somewhere else. We’re all going out Saturday night. And you know who’s gonna be there?”

Samuel eyes his friend apprehensively. “Who?”

“Miranda.”

Immediately, Samuel shakes his head. “I really don’t think she wants to see me, dude. I haven’t talked to her in over a year. I totally ghosted her after our third date.”

“Yeah, well, for some reason, she likes you,” Guzmán replies. “I’ve seen her a few times since you stopped dating and she always asks about you.”

Samuel gnaws on his lower lip. Miranda had been the first girl Guzmán had set him up with post-Carla; the daughter of one of his dad’s golfing buddies. She was nice, but honestly, it was just too soon. And, physically, she was almost everything Carla wasn’t. Samuel probably should’ve seen that as a good thing, although it only left him feeling raw at the end of each date they went on. 

“She doesn’t hate my guts?” Given the way he just stopped answering her calls and texts, he wouldn’t blame her if she did. 

“Apparently not. You liked her, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, but I can’t come. I’m busy.” 

Guzmán’s earlier impatience returns as he rolls his eyes. “Sure. Busy sitting on your couch, right?”

Samuel doesn’t call him out for being an asshole again, if only because he has given Guzmán the same weak excuse in the past to do just exactly that. He deserves the jab. “No, I’m actually working. I confirmed it just before you got here.”

“Really?” Guzmán asks, seemingly believing him. “For who?”

“Uh, that Yeray guy. I think I told you about him? He contacted me last week. He’s throwing some fancy surprise party for his girlfriend and wants a photographer for the event.” Samuel decides it’s just easier to leave out the fact that said girlfriend is named Carla; if they were anyone else, they could laugh about the irony, but as it is, it might just earn him a lecture, for whatever reason. After being Guzmán’s friend for five years, he’s learned the other guy never really needs one to start scolding. So, he just shrugs. “It’s not the artistic commissions I usually prefer, but money is money.”

“I don’t remember you mentioning him, but the name does sound familiar.”

“You were probably too busy scheming about setting me up to listen,” Samuel teases.

“I’m glad that you’re still working, you know that. If you can’t make rent, _my_ couch is the one your ass is going to be glued to next, and I don’t need the imprint in the leather,” Guzmán jokes back. “In fact, just to prevent that from happening, lunch is on me today.”

“How generous of you.”

“You can’t say I’m not a good friend.” Guzmán’s expression suddenly brightens even further. “Hey, maybe you’ll pick someone up at that party this weekend, huh? Then you can stay in her bed instead.”

Samuel laughs, giving him the finger.

*

“Need help with that?”

Carla looks over her shoulder at her mother standing in the entryway of her closet, then nods her head. She turns forward again as the older woman approaches, their eyes briefly meeting in the mirror before her mother’s gaze drops to the zipper of Carla’s dress, caught in an unreachable spot in the middle of her spine. 

Her hands are cold on Carla’s skin, but Carla doesn’t think that’s why she has to suppress a shiver. It’s the way her mom looks so… _proud_ , she thinks, as if she’s helping her get ready for her wedding day and not what’s only supposed to be a dinner with just the two of them, but actually a ruse to get Carla to the venue where her party is being held. 

She’s been looking at Carla like this a lot lately. For a year and a half, to be precise. Once, Carla would have given anything to know that her mom is proud of her, but now it just reminds her of what she had to sacrifice to finally see it. 

Carla swallows down the sour taste that thought leaves in her mouth and schools her expression just in time as her mom looks up again and rests her hands on Carla’s bare shoulders. The woman smiles at Carla’s reflection, dark eyes taking her in. 

“You look beautiful, darling.”

Carla presses her lips together in an indulgent smile. Knowingly, she says, “A bit overdressed for a ‘simple dinner’ though, no?”

Beatriz lets out a quiet scoff through her nose. “It’s sweet of Yeray to be doing this for you. He’s a good boyfriend.” Carla doesn’t say anything in response; her mom’s tone may have been light, but there’s still a subtle warning in there that only Carla would be able to pick up. “Your father really loved him.”

_Yeah, well, I loved Samuel._

The thought comes unbidden, too quickly for her to smother it in time. Like always, a familiar tightness closes around her neck. _Like always,_ and even worse, it sends her spiraling down into dangerous territory: old memories with him not unlike now.

( _Carla sits on the foot of their bed, knees crossed and her leg idly swinging back and forth in the air. She’s leaning back on her hands, but she shifts her weight to her left one so that she can check the time on the skinny watch on her wrist. Shit. They were supposed to leave nearly ten minutes ago._

_She looks back at the cracked bathroom door on the other side of their bedroom. “Samuel? Are you almost ready?”_

_The answer she gets in response is a low grumble that she suspects might be a few swears, but it sounds distracted enough that she thinks it’s not directed at her. Carla gracefully gets up and walks over, nudging the door open with her knuckles and finding Samuel scowling at his reflection and frustratedly yanking the untidy knot of his bow tie free._

_He catches her raised eyebrow in the mirror, huffing in annoyance and gesturing at the strip of black fabric hanging limply around his neck. “I can’t get this stupid thing done.”_

_Carla tuts softly, walking further into the bathroom and placing her hands on Samuel’s elbows to get him to turn around. He goes easily, leaning back against the sink and quietly observing her as she calmly does the tie for him with steady and sure fingers. She doesn’t look up at him while she does it, instead basking in the feel of his eyes on her, but when she’s finished, she rights the tie and smooths her hands across his shoulders._

_“There,” she murmurs with a smile. Samuel turns again so that he can inspect her handiwork in the mirror, and Carla wraps her arms around his waist, resting her chin on his shoulder and looking him over. The tuxedo is classic and sleek, all sharp black lines and underlined by a white, cotton dress shirt. It had also been expensive, although Samuel doesn’t know the exact price because he only agreed to let her buy it for him on the basis that she didn’t tell him how much it cost. “You look hot.”_

_The corner of his lips curls in a smile as he scoffs in amusement. “Thanks.”_

_There’s still something slightly guarded about him. Broody. Carla knows the look on him all too well._

_“Are you nervous?”_

_They’re only supposed to be going to a fundraiser that the winery is sponsoring, but she knows that that isn’t it. He may not like these balls and galas and benefits anymore than she does, but for her sake, Samuel usually handles them in stride. It’s not the event itself that’s making him like this._

_It’s her father._

_Samuel’s rib cage deflates against her sternum as he releases a long sigh. “Not nervous, just… apprehensive, I guess.”_

_“Yeah,” she mutters. “We could blow it off, stay at home tonight.”_

_Again, he twists around and faces her, unwrapping her arms from around his hips and taking her hands in his. “As much as I’d love to do that, your dad already hates me enough as it is.”_

_He says it with a wry smile, but she still scowls a little. Not because of Samuel, but because of the reminder that her dad can’t just be happy for her; that every time he sees Samuel, he treats him as if he’s worth less than a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe; and that he treats_ Carla _like an insolent kid whenever she defends him. “So you stay home and I’ll go by myself, then. He’s an asshole.”_

 _“Maybe, but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of letting him get to me. Or, at least, letting him_ know _he gets to me,” Samuel replies, gently kissing the furrow between her brow away. “And I’m not going to let you sit through tonight by yourself. These things are always so fucking boring.”_

_Carla rolls her eyes. “And don’t forget, entirely for show. I’ve been dealing with them my entire life, though. I’m used to it.” She chews on her lower lip, her gaze guiltily dropping to a random point on his chest. “But you shouldn’t have to get used to the way my parents treat you, Samuel. Or any of those people.”_

_“I’m never going to get used to it,” he says plainly. “But I am going to deal with it, because it’s for you. That’s all that matters.”_

_“No, that’s the problem.” She’s unable to hide the slight waver in her voice. “You shouldn’t have to deal with it for me. You_ don’t _have to.”_

_“But I want to,” Samuel tells her, his smile crooked now, more open and boyish. “So, you deal with that.”_

_He presses his lips to her forehead, the touch tender but brooking no argument. Carla huffs a soft laugh. “Fine.”_

_“I love you.” Samuel pulls back and entwines their fingers together. He pushes off of the sink and tugs her along with a grin. “Now, let's get this over with so you can take me out of this tux when we get back.”)_

“Carla?”

She blinks back to reality at the sound of the voice by her ear. For a second, she’s thrown by the fact that it sounds nothing like Samuel’s until she realizes that’s because it’s her _mother_ standing with her now, not in the bathroom of the apartment she used to share with him but in the walk-in closet of the mansion she now lives in with Yeray. It’s because she hasn’t actually heard Samuel’s voice in two years, desperate and confused and tinny through her voicemail as he asked her _I just want to know why you’re doing this._

Now, her mom is looking at her with concern. It makes Carla feel bitter, or maybe that’s just the acidic feeling in her throat at the reminder of that fucking fundraiser, her father, _everything._

“Yeah. Sorry, I was thinking,” she says, and before her mother can ask about what, Carla turns away from the mirror. “Come on. I just want to get this over with.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here it is! apologies for the wait again, it didn’t feel nearly as long since i was actually making good progress and then i realized it’s been ten days skdjdjd this one at least is longer and the chapter you've all been looking forward to, so i hope it doesn’t disappoint <3

Samuel, as always, immediately brushes off what Guzmán said about finding a girl at the party, so when Saturday comes, he only puts enough thought into his outfit to at least not look like an outright slob. He’s not trying to impress anybody, but he’s still a professional. 

That entails putting on a pair of jeans that doesn’t have holes in it—because while some rich people like that artsy, hipster-without-trying vibe that he had once been told he gives off, he’s pretty sure Yeray probably isn’t one of the few—and a nicer shirt than normal, meaning a dark green button-up that he had actually taken the time to iron. Of course, he can’t wear his favorite (and thrashed) pair of Vans to this thing, so that only leaves him with one option, since he only owns one pair of semi-casual boots for occasions just like these. 

Carla bought them for him a few years ago as a present because she couldn’t stand watching him cycle through the same three pairs of shitty sneakers he’s had since high school anymore. He tells himself that the only reason he hasn’t tossed them out is because they’re nice, and he does actually need them. But since he’s alone now, the irony does make him laugh—wearing something she got him for _his_ birthday to the birthday party of a girl with her name. 

In the end, he thinks he looks nice enough to not stick out like a sore thumb, which, as a photographer, is the last thing he wants. Samuel specializes at fading into the background. It’s a result of several years of being an anxious, unpopular wallflower in school, but it definitely has its benefits now. 

He gets to the hotel at around seven-thirty, peering up at the large building through his windshield as he pulls along the lane leading to the valet station. It’s a higher-rated hotel, so the people waiting outside for their vehicles are definitely wealthy. They look at Samuel and the vintage, barely-functioning American truck he drives with distaste that is all-too familiar to him, but he brushes them off in favor of grabbing his things and climbing out of his car. The young valet that approaches Samuel gives him a working-class nod of solidarity as he hands him his keys, one that Samuel returns; he can’t imagine what type of shit these guys put up with on a daily basis. 

Well, he _can,_ but he figures it’s best not to. 

The woman behind the front desk smiles politely as he approaches. “Hello. May I help you, sir?”

“Yeah, I’m here for—”

He’s interrupted by the woman’s smile suddenly turning knowing as she takes him in. “Mr. Grijalva’s private event, yes?” Samuel nods. “We were told to expect guests early. Quite a lot of you have already arrived, it looks like it’s going to be a big party.”

“Oh, I’m just the photographer,” Samuel replies, lamely holding up his camera where it’s hanging from his neck, still in its case. 

“Ah, well, the elevators are around the corner.” She leans forward and indicates further down the lobby. “Just take them all the way up to the penthouse and you’re there. And between you and me,” she adds, dropping the professional façade as she lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “it’s an open bar, and these types of people typically don’t pay attention to anyone but each other. You should take advantage of both and enjoy yourself.”

Samuel chuckles softly. “Thank you,” he tells her, and she gives him another bright grin before he heads off into the direction she pointed him in. He presses the button for the elevator and waits, watching the light signaling its descent overhead.

For some reason, with each floor the light passes or stops at, Samuel feels an odd sense of apprehension tighten more and more in his stomach. His palms are a little clammy, too. He isn’t exactly sure why; he usually doesn’t get nervous on a job, because the fact that he’s working keeps him focused, but right now he’s suddenly got a feeling gnawing on his insides that he can’t quite put his finger on. He can’t even tell if it’s borne of dread or not, just that it’s intense, ominous, and makes him blow out a deep breath in an effort to dispel it.

The elevator finally dings, and Samuel steps aside to let its occupants spill out into the corridor alongside himself and the few others who are also waiting. By the time he presses the button for the terrace and leans against the wall, that gut feeling is almost completely gone. 

Weird.

He’s the only one left in the elevator when it finally reaches the penthouse, and he takes two steps forward before pausing in his tracks and glancing around the place. It’s definitely as over-the-top-while-also-somehow-being-minimalist as he thought it would be: it’s all sleek furniture, three-hundred and sixty degree views of the city, and lowered neon lighting, although he figures the latter is for the ambiance as much as it’s for the surprise element of the evening. If not more, actually, because he has no idea how _this_ many people are supposed to hide and stay quiet enough to surprise someone. It’s so packed in here, every picture’s backdrop is just going to be of an ocean of bodies. 

Whatever, at least he’s getting paid a bunch of money to take those pictures.

He carefully stops a passing waiter by the elbow. “Excuse me. Do you know where Mr. Grijalva is?”

The waiter jerks his head over at a tall guy in a backwards hat talking to what looks like someone from the catering staff. “That’s him. But don’t call him Mr. Grijalva, otherwise you’ll get a whole lecture,” he scoffs.

“Alright. Thanks,” Samuel says, nodding in gratitude. He weaves his way through the crowd, muttering apologies when he inevitably bumps into someone. Yeray has his back to Samuel when he finally reaches him, and he has to raise his voice above the music pulsing around them to get his attention. “Yeray?”

Yeray turns around. Now that Samuel’s up close, he can fully see the other man’s features and finally put a face to the name; he doesn’t typically go snooping through his clients’ social media pages, so, more often than not, he has no idea what they look like until he actually meets them in person. Yeray looks sort of like how Samuel expected: tall, handsome, and clearly loaded. 

What Samuel _didn’t_ expect was how frazzled the guy actually appears to be more than anything else.

“Y-yeah, sorry, um, which company are you from?” Yeray asks in a rush of air, then his obviously stressed brain seems to catch up to him. He shakes his head and scoffs an embarrassed laugh. “Oh, Samuel. Sorry, things have been crazy. One of the cases of champagne shattered, the appetizers got mixed up with another event’s, and the DJ got food poisoning and canceled fifteen minutes ago, so now we’re using somebody’s phone for music. It’s a total disaster, I thought you were here to tell me something else had gone wrong. But I’m glad you made it. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Samuel accepts the man’s hand for a shake, feeling sympathetic. “You too,” he says. “For what it’s worth, it’s pretty nice here. I wouldn’t have been able to tell anything’s wrong if you hadn’t told me.”

He sees more than hears Yeray exhale. “Yeah. I guess I’m just really nervous on top of it all. Everything needs to be perfect.” Considering how he doesn’t know Yeray well or at all, the nod Samuel gives him is more awkward than polite, but Yeray doesn’t seem to notice. “Do you think she’ll like it?”

“Uh… who?” 

“ _Carla_ ,” Yeray emphasizes, ringing his hands. 

Samuel uselessly glances around. Surely this guy has friends who could reassure him before he has a panic attack in front of a total stranger? And it’s not like Samuel even knows Carla or what she likes, anyway. _His_ Carla—and it hurts having to refer to her as that—wouldn’t care for it, would think it’s too flashy and showy when what she would actually prefer is a small gathering with close friends or even a quiet night in.

But he’s getting ahead of himself, because this is not for _her_ , and still, Samuel’s not a total dick. He does feel for Yeray. If Samuel were in his shoes, he’d probably be freaking out, too. _Overthinking_ is something that’s definitely familiar to him. 

So he lifts his hand and pats Yeray on the shoulder in a way that he hopes is comforting, because to Samuel, it feels the complete opposite. He tries for words to make up for it. “I obviously don’t know her, but I think, if she loves you, she’s definitely going to appreciate the thought and effort you put into all of this. It’s going to be fine. She’ll love it.”

Yeray nods jerkily and takes a long, steadying breath. Samuel squeezes him on the shoulder one last time before letting his arm fall back down to his side, and Yeray casts him an apologetic smile. “You’re probably right. I’m sorry, you don’t even know me and I just laid this all on you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Samuel says, waving him off. “I’ve been there before.”

Yeray raises his eyebrows. “You’ve thrown a surprise party for your girlfriend and almost worried yourself into an early grave?” 

“The surprise party, no. But the worrying myself into an early grave part? Definitely.” 

Yeray’s looking at him curiously. Samuel doesn’t know why he chooses to elaborate. He’s never told anyone about this, not his mom or brother, not even Guzmán. It still hurts, but it hurts significantly less than he thinks it would if he was saying it to someone who knew her—and, therefore, knew what she meant to Samuel. 

“I had this girlfriend a couple years back. I, uh, went looking for rings at one point.” Now _Samuel’s_ the one spilling his guts to a stranger—no, not even just a stranger, but a _client,_ at that. How unprofessional. But Yeray doesn’t seem to be judging him, instead listening intently. “We’d been together since high school, so I knew what she would like, but that still didn’t stop me from second guessing every choice I made. In the end, I didn’t even pick anything out.”

In the end, Carla broke up with him two weeks later. 

He made himself stop wondering where they would be if he just bought a ring and asked her to marry him a long time ago, so he certainly doesn’t dwell on it now. Instead, he swallows thickly and clears his throat, grateful that the music and darkened lighting hides them both. 

“I’d figure, the bigger the better,” Yeray says jokingly. 

A small, indulgent smile curls on Samuel’s lips. It doesn’t exactly reach his eyes. “She never cared about stuff like that. Money was just money to her. She was…”

He struggles to describe Carla. She was somehow so simple to him at the same time that she was a mixture of contradictions. Cold to others, but loving and affectionate when it was just the two of them. Smart and controlled, but also vulnerable and scared. Confident and self-conscious. Complicated and simple. In love with him and then not, all of a sudden.

“...special,” he settles on. 

Yeray looks confused for a moment, like he can’t possibly fathom a girl not being impressed by money. Samuel’s instantly reminded that whatever singular, surface-level thing they have in common at the moment, Yeray is still a guy who is insanely rich. He at least doesn’t question it, or ask Samuel what happened between him and Carla because it’s obvious that whatever they once were, they aren’t anymore. He just nods and smiles, a slightly more charming version of the nervous wreck he’d been a few seconds ago. 

“I’m sure she was.” Before Yeray can continue, he makes a face and reaches into his pocket for his phone. Samuel catches a glimpse of the screen, but only enough to know that someone just texted him. Yeray reads it quickly before sucking in a final deep breath. “Well, I hope you’re right about Carla liking this, because her mom told me that their car is pulling up to the valet right now. And… thank you, man. For listening.”

“Of course. You said you wanted me to get pictures of Carla when she walks in, right? Is there any specific angle you wanted me to take them from?”

“You have free reign all night,” Yeray answers with a shake of his head, already walking off. “I trust you!”

He leaves Samuel behind with stinging thoughts of Carla and a heavy weight settled on his chest to compliment them, but Samuel tries his best to push them out of mind by shifting into work mode. _Work_ he can focus on—pointing the camera, clicking the camera, figuring out angles and shadows and lighting. Like Guzmán and his persistent, borderline (or maybe outright) insensitive approach to getting Samuel to move on, it’s one of the few things that help him keep his head above water. It’s definitely the _only_ thing that helps him just _not think_ for a while. 

Samuel cuts through the crowd again until he’s standing on the very outskirts of it and can move around freely. While he does love the more artistic sessions, there is something to be said about capturing people in their natural element. Once more, his sternum aches with memories of quietly snapped photos of golden hair glimmering beneath the morning sun and full lips pursed around the rim of a coffee mug, but then Yeray’s voice is echoing through a microphone and telling everyone to quiet down and get into position, so he snaps out of it one last time. 

Excited whispers fill the room as the lights somehow dim even further. Samuel positions himself between a pair of high tables a few feet ahead of where everyone’s huddled together, kneeling so that he isn’t blocking anyone’s view. It’s pretty out in the open, but with how dark it is in here, he’ll see Carla long before she sees him. He just needs to be fully prepared for the right moment.

He lifts his camera in front of his face, takes a steadying breath, and waits. In the ensuing silence, that nervous twist returns to his stomach, but he chalks it up to anticipation—he swears he can hear the elevator ascending up to their floor. 

Then it finally chimes down the hallway. The hushed murmurs briefly pick up in volume again, followed by warnings and shushes, before it goes completely still and quiet. 

There are two soft voices that are getting closer and closer. One tugs at some invisible point on the back of Samuel’s head, but before he can reach out toward the familiarity, the lights are flicking back on and he’s pressing his finger down on the shutter button and there’s a chorus of _surprise!_ ringing out around him and—

And the girl he’s looking at through his camera’s lens is none other than Carla Rosón Caleruega. 

She looks exactly the same. He has no idea why that surprises him, because the fact that she’s still as beautiful as ever—the most beautiful girl he’s ever _seen—_ doesn’t. For a moment, he’s more breathless by that alone than the fact that she’s here, that it’s _her,_ and he sort of feels like he’s sixteen again, ready to fail all his classes if only it meant he got to stare at her sitting across the classroom throughout every single one of them. 

But then reality catches back up to him, because—because _she’s here, it’s her._ Because Yeray’s Carla is, in fact, _Samuel’s_ Carla, except that she hasn’t actually been his in two years; because this has to be some cruel fucking joke that the universe is playing on him.

His client is his ex-girlfriend’s, the one that he is still painfully in love with, boyfriend. _Yeray is Carla’s boyfriend._

Jesus. 

Samuel sucks in a sharp breath, suddenly remembering that he needs to breathe. He yanks the camera away from his face at the same time, but the strap is still around his neck and it gets caught, so instead the camera gets knocked out of his slackened grasp and knocks against his abdomen. It’d probably hurt a little, if he wasn’t so busy gaping. 

He knows what shock looks like on Carla Rosón. It’s not the raised eyebrows or demure little laugh that she lets out as she glances around the scene before her, hand delicately held in front of her mouth. That, he immediately knows, is an act. 

It’s the way all of her movements suddenly pause, her lips part, and her eyes immediately widen once they land on Samuel. 

It’s how a small line forms between her eyebrows as he sees her mouth his name to herself in a silent question.

And it’s enough to get him to finally register everything around him. It all hits him hard and at once, the noise and heat and pressure and suffocation _._ Yeray is walking up to Carla, and a thin mask of joy effortlessly slides onto her features at the last minute. Samuel has to tear his eyes away. 

He forgot how good she is at acting like nothing is wrong. 

Samuel, on the other hand, has never managed to master that skill. Right now, all he wants to do is flee, but Carla and her boyfriend and—god, her _mother_ are blocking the only exit. He doubts there’s any other escape short of throwing himself off of the terrace, and besides that, no matter how much he wants to, he can’t just abandon a job in the middle of it. He has to remain professional. He has to _think._

Remembering what the receptionist had said to him, he shoulders his way to the bar and flags down the bartender. Alcohol has got to be the last thing that’ll help him clear his head and figure out what the hell he needs to do, but it’s definitely the best thing to chase away the tremble in his fingers. He orders two shots and immediately knocks them back in quick succession, his eyes darting back over to the front of the room. 

He can’t exactly see Carla, just catches glimpses of her greeting guests through tiny gaps in the crowd. This place is filled enough that, maybe, he can avoid her all night, do his job, get his check, go home, down a bottle of something as strong as what they’re serving here, and never mention this evening to anybody ever. Especially Guzmán. 

_Fuck_ , Guzmán. 

He’s not really friendly with Carla, not anymore, not since she dumped Samuel without any good reason, but their fathers had still been business partners, their mothers are still _friends._ Of course, Guzmán had to have known that Carla wasn’t single. Is this why he’s been pushing so hard to get Samuel to start dating? Because Carla has clearly moved on?

Samuel isn’t sure whether to be thankful or completely pissed off that Guzmán never mentioned anything. He doubts it would have helped. It definitely wouldn’t have helped tonight, since he wasn’t even aware what he was getting into, but… he thinks he was entitled to know that Carla isn’t doing nearly as shitty as he is, at least. Because maybe then it would have killed that last inkling of hope inside of him, the hope he now realizes has been what’s making him reluctant to find someone new or at least let go of Carla: the hope that she’d come back. 

He feels like the world’s biggest and most pathetic fucking fool. It only intensifies by a million once a body leans against the bar two feet away from him and he realizes that figuring he could get through the rest of the night without _this_ happening had only been wishful thinking.

God, she even _smells_ the same. He doesn’t know how it can be both comforting and agonizing at once. 

“Samuel, what are you doing here?”

She doesn’t sound particularly angry or happy, but guarded. And it’s funny, the way her voice manages to drive out all of his jumbled thoughts, allow him to take a deep breath, and handle this like an adult. 

“Working,” he answers, staring at the twin empty shot glasses in front of him, idly flipping one in his fingers just to give himself something else to do because he can’t bring himself to look at her yet. “Yeray hired me to photograph tonight. I didn’t know it was going to be your party.”

_I can’t believe it’s you._

“Oh,” Carla says. Samuel briefly wonders if it’s disappointment that he detects in the single word, but then brushes it off. It’s too noisy to tell. 

“I wouldn’t have taken the job if I did,” he continues, because he doesn’t want her to think that he’s here with some far-fetched and tacky notion of getting back together at a party that her current boyfriend has thrown her. He’s pathetic (and Carla doesn’t need to know that), but not that brand of pathetic. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s—” She blows out a long exhale; he sees her shoulders shift with it in his peripheral. “You didn’t know.”

A short, awkward silence falls over them. Well, as silent as it can be in a venue packed with people and music, which is surprisingly deafening. Samuel continues to rotate the shot glass. 

“You’re celebrating your birthday early,” he states dumbly. It’s sort of an accusation— _your actual birthday is next week, and this wouldn’t be happening if you kept it that way._

“Yeah.” She doesn’t elaborate on why. “You can leave. I’ll tell Yeray something and make sure he still pays you.”

It’s his pride that prevents him from letting her give him an out, even though he knows he should take it; that the humiliation of her _pity_ will be worth whatever sticking around is going to entail. But Samuel has always been stubborn to the point of self-harm. 

So with a steadying sigh of his own, he drops the glass down onto the countertop and shakes his head. “I made a commitment. We’re both grown ups, right?” 

He finally straightens and slides his eyes over to her, and he wonders how two years can both change so much and so little. She’s even more stunning up close, of course, and his breath momentarily gets lodged in his sternum, knocked loose again once he sees the stiff nod she’s giving him. His tongue is tasteless and dry, in spite of the alcohol. 

“Right,” she answers. 

Samuel nods, too. Neither of them say anything for a few beats. 

Then, “You look—nice,” he comments, because he’s an idiot and it’s the first small talk-related thing that popped in his head. It’s also the _wrong_ thing to say, but the damage is done. At least he doesn’t cringe as soon as it’s out of his mouth. 

It’s still the truth, regardless. Her makeup is elegant, hair slicked back into a sleek, side-parted bun. She’s wearing a mini dress whose color he can’t really pinpoint beneath the neon lighting, but it’s shimmery; some sort of metallic. He doesn’t look down at her shoes, but knows that she’s wearing heels because she’s slightly taller than him. 

She’s staring at his own shoes, though. The ones she bought for him long ago. 

“Thanks,” she replies, flicking her gaze back up to his. “So do you.”

“You seem to be doing nice, too,” Samuel says meaningfully, kind of proud that he manages to not sound quite so bitter to his ears.

But still, something momentarily creases in Carla’s expression. Like pretending, she’s always been good at reading between the lines. A soft sound leaves her, and for some reason, he does actually hear it. 

“Samuel…”

It may have stung to admit, but he was still being genuine. He isn’t spiteful.

“No, I mean it,” he cuts her off, looking around them. “This place is great, and… he obviously cares for you.”

Carla presses her lips together and stares at some unspecified point on the bar even as she says, “Yeah, it is. He does.”

Samuel knows that look, that voice. 

“You hate the party,” he states knowingly, stupidly, _familiarly._

Her eyes dart back to him, a bit alarmed and a bit on the defensive. But then it just morphs into something resembling defeat, or maybe relief. She opens her mouth to speak. However—

“There you are!” 

Yeray throws his arm around Carla’s shoulders, smiling down at her from ear-to-ear. Her expression is blinked away in a millisecond, although it’s just replaced by a smile that only Samuel seems to be able to tell is strained. Maybe it’s because he feels the exact same way, standing here with Carla and who he now knows is her new boyfriend. Yeray seems to belatedly notice that Samuel is standing there, and he fixes that same grin on him. 

“Hey, man. You’ve met the birthday girl?” He holds Carla close, and it’s easy for Samuel to ignore that, if only because he’s busy trying to figure out how she wants to play this. Does she want to act like they’re strangers? Does _he?_ “Babe, this is Samuel García. I hired him for the evening, but you gotta check out his other work. He’s this amazing photographer—”

“I know,” Carla says, answering both of Samuel’s internal questions for him. There’s something in her voice to match her gaze. He wants to call it tender, but that would just make him delusional. 

“You know?” Yeray asks with a confused frown. It grows deeper as he looks between the both of them, realizes what she means, and says, “Wait, you two actually _know_ each other? How?”

Samuel watches as conflict twists in her expression. Admitting that they know one another is one thing, but that they dated? That they were actual high school sweethearts?

He isn’t sure why _he_ feels obligated to give her an out now, because he knows he definitely doesn’t owe her anything. She’s the one who ended their relationship.

But before he realizes it, Samuel’s already offering her a subtle smile of assurance. 

“Carla’s an old friend,” he tells Yeray. There’s a brief glimpse of gratitude on her features that vanishes right before Yeray looks to her for confirmation.

“We went to school together,” she adds, rubbing her lips in the way that she does when she’s uncomfortable. 

Yeray doesn’t notice it. Instead, he raises his eyebrows and lets out a laugh. “Well. What a small world, huh?”

For a moment, Samuel and Carla just look at each other. He thinks it’s hitting the both of them now, _really_ hitting them. 

“The smallest,” Samuel breathes. It’s so quiet that it gets entirely swallowed whole by the noise surrounding them, but he knows Carla sees it on his lips, because her eyes finally tick away.

“If I’d have known you guys were friends, I would have invited you instead of hired you,” Yeray is saying. “But Carla doesn’t talk about anyone she knew from school often.”

Samuel doesn’t have to wonder why. She pretty much fell out of contact with all of their friends once they broke up, pushing everyone away. She all but fell off the face of the earth. He isn’t sure why she did _that,_ though; it can’t be because of Samuel. They were her friends first. 

He just shrugs. “You know how things are. People graduate and fall out of touch.” 

Or they graduate, date for two years, then one tells the other that it’s over like it’s nothing.

Carla swallows thickly as if she can hear what he’s thinking. Shit, she probably can—she could always read him like he was an open book. 

Yeray nods. “Although, it’s great that you’re reconnecting now. It’s kind of like fate, no?” He jokes, unaware of what he’s really saying. Carla’s eyes widen a little from where she’s still tucked under his arm and Samuel half-chokes on an awkward laugh. He’s kind of in awe of the other man’s complete obliviousness, because it’s not like either Carla or Samuel are doing a great job at this, but Yeray’s face suddenly brightens with an idea. “You know what? Carla’s got a new winery opening next week and has been looking for the right person to take pictures of it for the grand reveal party. I don’t know why she didn’t immediately think of you.”

Now it’s Samuel’s turn to widen his eyes, though he’s pretty sure he mostly just looks like a deer in headlights. “Oh, no, I couldn’t—”

Yeray furrows his brows. “Why not? You’d be perfect for it.”

Samuel looks to Carla for help. She’s always been the better liar out of the two of them, the _smarter_ liar, so it’s honestly surprising that she let him do all of the talking so far. 

What’s even more surprising, however, is that what comes out of her mouth isn’t close to being smart at all. 

“He’s right. You would be.”

Samuel blinks. “I would?”

Her tongue darts out over her bottom lip. “If you wanted to do it, that is,” she says, and despite everything, Samuel still knows her well-enough to be able to tell when she’s nervous. 

He’s momentarily speechless, but the silent lapse isn’t made awkward if only because he’s saved by someone calling out for Yeray. The man makes his excuses before walking off, leaving Carla and Samuel alone again. 

“Do you really think that’s a good idea?” He finally manages, voice barely loud enough to be heard over everything. 

She lifts a shoulder in a casual half-shrug, lips twisting. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Carla.”

Her eyes dart over to him. “You said it yourself. We’re grown ups. And—” Something shivers near her lash line. “And we _were_ friends, once.”

“But that’s not all we were,” he reminds her, sounding a little sharp even to his ears. She can’t just pretend that they don’t have all this history between them. 

Now her gaze lowers. “Yeah. You’re right, I’m sorry.” She blows out a long, slow sigh. “It was selfish of me to ask. Enjoy the party, Samuel.”

He remembers what Guzmán said to him. _Get angry again, get pissed off._ He tries to reach for that anger, because maybe then it’ll rationalize him, make him realize that this is a terrible fucking idea, maybe—

Maybe it’ll be enough to kill that final ember of hope burning in his rib cage. 

The anger is nowhere to be found, though. All there is, is pathetic idiocy. And possibly masochism. 

“Okay.”

Carla stops where she’s already partially turned away from him. Surprise—that _real_ surprise from earlier—is written all over her face, underlined by hesitation, like she isn’t sure she heard him right. “Okay?”

“I’ll do it,” he says, ignoring the tiny voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Guzmán telling him that he’s being stupid. 

In his peripheral, he sees Carla face him once more. Samuel exhales and takes his eyes off of where they’d been focused on the bar top. 

“I’ll help you,” he reiterates. 

And this is _definitely_ masochism, but he thinks getting to see the tiny smile that curves on Carla’s lips for the first time in a long time once the words are out of his mouth is sort of worth it. 

“Your number is still the same, right?”

Samuel doesn’t focus on the fact that she still has it saved. Or, at the very least, still has it memorized. He just nods. 

“Then I’ll give you a call so we can work out the details,” Carla tells him. She slowly looks him over, pausing on his damned shoes for a single second before she’s meeting his eyes again. She looks like she’s debating saying something. But when she opens her mouth to do it, Yeray shouts for her, waving her over to the group of people surrounding him with a grin. 

“Go ahead. I’m still technically on the job,” Samuel says in response to the apologetic expression on her face, even though he’s dying to know what she was going to tell him. “And… happy early birthday, Carla.”

“Thank you. It’s—” That smile returns, a tad wider now. It matches the crooked one that Samuel can faintly feel on his own lips. “I’m glad it was you tonight.”

She gives him one last lingering look before slipping through the crowd, and Samuel watches her go with something buzzing in his veins. The euphoria quickly vanishes once she rejoins Yeray and he instantly pulls her into his side. 

Right. Because whatever Samuel just got himself into, Carla still has a boyfriend. 

And like he told her, he still has to work. He really does throw himself into it for the rest of the evening, keeping himself properly occupied from every single confusing thought whirling around in his mind like a tornado. Sometimes he catches Carla already looking at him through his camera right before she glances somewhere else, but they don’t get the chance to speak again before Yeray lets him leave shortly past midnight. 

The party is nowhere near over, but mostly everyone is headed towards the sloppy-levels of drunk by this point, and glassy-eyed people with drink stains on their shirts don’t exactly make for the most flattering of subjects. Samuel feels weird about taking Yeray’s money, all things considered. But he still actually needs it, so he graciously accepts the payment, decides against searching for Carla to say goodbye, and heads home. 

Without the focus of the work, there’s nothing to keep his thoughts out during the drive home. Not even his truck’s embarrassingly loud engine or the way he has the radio cranked up as high as it will go is enough to drown out the never ending chorus of _Carla, it was Carla, it was Carla and it’s been two years since she dumped you and still, you agreed to see her again without even so much as a blink of an eye_ that’s mercilessly assaulting his brain right now. He doesn’t even have the energy to dissect what all that was. He isn’t sure he would even be able to if he did. 

Of course, he knew that there would always be a possibility he’d run into Carla again, at some point. He never pictured it happening any particular way, but he figured he’d have some dignity when it did. Self-respect. 

All he has is self-torture, apparently. 

By the time he finally gets home and climbs up the stairs to his apartment, he’s exhausted and weary, and all he wants to do is crash into bed. He’s just taken his keys out of his pocket when his phone rings, and for a moment his heartbeat picks up, thinking it’s Carla carrying out on her earlier promise. 

A combination of disappointment and relief washes over him as he pulls his phone out and reads Guzmán’s name on the caller I.D. Then he briefly panics again, wondering if his friend has some sort of freaky, _Samuel is doing the exact opposite of getting over Carla_ sixth sense, before realizing he’s being ridiculous. Guzmán’s probably just drunk. And while Samuel doesn’t really feel up to talking to anyone right now, the distraction will most likely be better than lying in bed and staring at his ceiling until he passes out. 

He slips into his apartment and clicks the door shut behind him at the same time as he swipes his phone across the screen. 

“Samuuuuuu,” Guzmán sing-songs, or sing- _slurs._ Yeah, he’s wasted. “What’s up, man?”

Samuel huffs in quiet amusement, tossing his keys onto the counter and setting his camera down next to them to be dealt with later. “Nothing. Just got home.”

“Oh,” he draws out the sound, “right, right. Rich boy’s party.”

“You know, you’re a rich boy.”

“Rich- _er_ boy, then. How was it? Find any cute girls like I told you to?”

He seriously debates telling Guzmán the whole truth. Maybe it’d be easier to do it now, with him drunk and a little more tolerating than he would be sober. Maybe he’d still explode anyway, but completely forget about it by the morning. 

He chickens out at the same moment that Guzmán keeps talking, though. 

“No, you didn’t, because of course, you didn’t,” he says loudly and sardonically. 

“I just… had a long night,” Samuel settles on, plopping down onto his mattress. 

“Bet you wish you came out with me instead, huh?”

Samuel thinks about the look in Carla’s eyes whenever he caught her staring at him, a cocktail of emotions that he’s sure were being reflected right back at her, and doesn’t know how to answer. 


	4. Chapter 4

Carla sits alone at her kitchen table, staring blankly at the creamy, golden brown contents steaming from within the coffee mug held between her hands. It’s half-gone by now, but it wouldn't matter if she drinks the whole cup or five-hundred more of them. No amount of caffeine in the world can get rid of the exhaustion currently fogging her brain, tugging at the bags beneath her eyes, and burrowing deep inside of her bones. 

Last night, she and Yeray had gotten home shortly before two in the morning, and while he had almost immediately passed out into a deep sleep a few feet away from her, Carla spent the next three hours lying on her side and gazing into the darkened vacuum of space of their bedroom. She just couldn’t shut her brain off long enough to fall asleep herself, and now she’s severely paying for it. 

It isn’t uncommon for her and Yeray to sleep on far opposite sides of their bed, rarely touching, never cuddling. It’s not uncommon for Carla to lie awake for most of the night either, insomnia clinging to her like a parasite. 

Fuck, it isn’t even uncommon for her to spend all that time thinking about Samuel, but she usually isn’t doing it because she actually saw him with her own eyes just mere hours beforehand. And not only saw him, but spoke to him too; heard his voice, greedily breathed the still-familiar scent of him in and felt everything she’s been trying (and failing) to suppress for the past two years come crashing down on her like a tidal wave. All the lingering love and regret and longing, sure, but maybe most of all, the _guilt._

He did look good, she hadn’t told him that out of politeness. Just laying eyes on him after all this time lit her up more than anything that has happened to her in her current long-standing relationship, but after that initial spark and shock, she also registered how tired he seems. She recognized that weariness in the lines around his eyes and in the posture of his body if only because she sees it herself in the mirror every morning. The type of _tired_ that a good night’s rest can’t fix. 

Samuel didn’t ask for this exhaustion, however. More so, he doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve any of the shit she’s put him through, and she doesn’t deserve the right to have him back in her life, in whatever way and for however long he is now. It may not have been her choice to let him go, not really, but he isn’t aware of that. He should despise her. 

They’ve always had that in common, though: giving more forgiveness to the people in their lives than they probably deserved, helping them when they shouldn’t. Of course, it’s complicated for Carla when those people are her very own parents, but Samuel… she isn’t his family, not anymore. She’s just the girl who broke his heart. 

She may have withdrawn from Marina and everyone else once they split up, but that hadn’t stopped the girl from trying to talk some sense into Carla for the first month or so after it happened. When she realized that attempting to get Carla to open up wouldn’t work, she changed her tactic by telling her all about how horrible Samuel was doing. But Carla already knew—she had the missed calls and voicemails to prove that, and if those weren’t enough, she had known him better than anyone else for the last four years. She knew how he was feeling. And even if Carla didn’t let it show, she was feeling it too. 

So presently, she has no clue why he would agree to help her—except she also can’t stop thinking about those damned shoes he wore last night, the ones she bought him years ago, and a small part of her _does_ know. She can’t let herself think too much into it, however, especially because Samuel is right. This isn’t a good idea at all, and not only for the sole reason he thinks why. 

Whatever pride and care that had been apparent in her mom’s expression before they left for the party was completely gone the moment she cornered Carla after getting there. Her mom saw Samuel, obviously—because that’s just how Carla’s luck goes and he was standing _right there,_ anyway—and she hadn’t been happy about it. Unsurprisingly, she hadn’t wasted any time in reminding Carla of what her dead fucking father would’ve had to say, either. Even less surprising was how she was more worried about the wineries and Yeray and _are you seeing that kid behind his back_ instead of the fact that this was Samuel, the one guy Carla’s ever loved, and the one guy both of her _proud_ and _caring_ parents blackmailed her into crushing just so that could use her to save their own skins. 

Carla anxiously looks up as she senses Yeray enter the kitchen, momentarily paranoid that he just heard everything that’s going on in her head right now. But he only smiles at her warmly and kisses the top of her head in passing as he goes to get himself some juice from the fridge, and Carla’s paranoia is instantly replaced by a feeling of ridiculousness. Of course, Yeray can’t read her mind; he can’t even see what’s lying right underneath his nose. 

Although, she supposes his obliviousness is a good thing. If he knew that her and Samuel’s relationship (or lack thereof) is so much more complicated than simply _old high school friends,_ she’d only have a headache to deal with on top of her sleep-deprivation and all of this confusion. She definitely _is_ thankful their sex life is so nonexistent that she can’t even remember when the last time they even had sex was, because she’s sure having to sleep with Yeray last night after everything would have been an all time low, even for her. 

For now, she just needs to focus on getting her shit together. Yeray’s not so clueless that her being crabby and exhausted will remain completely unnoticed by him, and she doesn’t need the inevitable questions that will come from that, so she plasters on as convincing a smile as she can muster and wishes him a good morning as he approaches her again.

“Morning,” he returns brightly, settling down across from her. “Last night was fun, no?”

That definitely isn’t the word she’d use to describe it. She lifts her coffee to her lips and raises her eyebrows, humming in affirmation. “Yeah, it was. Thank you,” she recites. “I definitely wasn’t expecting it.”

It’s certainly the truth. While she knew the party was happening, nothing could have prepared her for seeing Samuel.

Part of her wants to throttle Yeray for throwing the party, actually. For hiring Samuel and therefore disrupting the sad, lonely, but nonetheless easily-anticipated existence that is her life now. She knows she would have never grown to accept the situation she’s in with Yeray, but she at least had started to convince herself into getting used to it; into believing that she might as well, since it wasn’t going to change. 

But now it has changed. It’s changed in both the best and worst possible way, and at the end of it all, Carla can’t blame Yeray for it even in the slightest. She can only blame herself, her and her greed, because she had the chance to shut his idea of Samuel helping her down, and she didn’t take it. Worse, she smothered that chance to death with her own hands. 

Because temptation is something she’s always been good at ignoring _except_ for when it came to Samuel. It’s largely why she cut everyone off after they broke up. Without mutual friends, she could avoid hearing about him or accidentally running into him whenever she hung out with Marina and Lu. She knew that if the opportunity to reconnect with him presented itself, she’d jump at it. 

And she did. She just never anticipated that the opportunity would be presented to her by her current boyfriend. 

“So you liked it?” He asks her, trying not to sound as eager for her approval as he clearly is. 

She hears Samuel’s voice in her head. _You hate the party._

Part of it was scary, how easily he could see through her. It was also thrilling, the knowledge that in spite of it all, that was something that didn’t—and probably never would—change. 

“I loved it,” Carla lies now. It sounds unconvincing to her, but she watches the tension deflate from Yeray’s shoulders and a big, relieved smile bloom on his face regardless. 

“That’s good to hear. I was so worried it was going to go wrong, everything was a disaster at first, but he was right.”

She furrows her eyebrows. “Who was?”

“Samuel.” Carla glances away and presses her lips together, but Yeray keeps going, unaware. “I might have ranted to him a little bit when he first got there. I was nervous you weren’t going to be happy with it, but he said you would.” He scoffs in amusement. “I still can’t believe you guys know each other. Madrid is so much smaller than it seems sometimes.”

Carla smiles mildly, not wanting to get too into this topic with him. “Yeah,” she says, then a little more under her breath than she means to, “What are the odds.”

“I’ve been following his work for around a year or so,” Yeray blissfully continues. She doesn’t have to wonder how she’s never heard of this until now; on the off chance Yeray _had_ brought it up before, Carla probably wasn’t really paying attention. “Although, some of the stuff he’s been posting on his Instagram lately has been sort of depressing. I think it has something to do with a break up.”

At that, Carla abruptly widens her eyes and lifts her head. She can feel her heartbeat in every single one of her fingertips. “You do?”

Yeray nods. “He told me about a girl he was dating, but it didn’t sound like they were together anymore. Poor guy.”

“What did he say about her?” Carla asks after a moment of hesitation and against her better judgement. 

“Not much,” Yeray replies, lifting his shoulder in a half-shrug. “Just that they were together for a while—since school, I think. Hey, maybe you know who she is?”

She shakes her head a tad too quickly, although Yeray seems to buy it. Yeah, his obliviousness is definitely a positive. 

“I don’t remember him being with anyone. It must have been shortly after we graduated,” she lies in a much smoother and more believable manner, nonchalantly circling the rim of her cup with her finger. “Like he said, we lost touch.”

Yeray hums thoughtfully. “Oh. Well, whoever she is, she missed out. I mean, I don’t know him all that well, I guess, but he seems like a cool guy.”

Carla pauses the movement of her hand, watching the surface of her coffee ripple softly. She exhales a sigh through her nose to match it. 

_He’s so much more than that,_ she wants to say. _He is a corny, unbelievable hopeless romantic; he would do almost anything for the people he cares about; he is way too hard on himself with his art sometimes. He tells terrible jokes that used to always make me laugh, anyway; he’s an even worse chef, and I loved all those home cooked meals, too. He’s brave and thoughtful and stupid and stubborn—_

_And I loved him. I still love him._

Carla blinks, tightens her hold on the cup, and just murmurs, “Yeah. He is.”

“And seriously, it’s so coincidental, you meeting him again when you’ve been looking for a photographer for ages. I still can’t believe you never considered him for the job before.”

“It was only just a hobby back then. I didn’t know he’d started pursuing it for real.” Another lie, because Carla can’t exactly say, _he never considered photography as a career until I convinced him to after school._

“So, when are you gonna call him?”

Her gaze darts back to Yeray, stomach flipping. “What?”

He’s looking at her oddly. “To set up the details for the winery job?”

Carla rolls her lips together. Right. It’s not like she’s forgotten that she promised to get in touch with Samuel soon (actually, she’s impatient to talk to him again just as much as she’s nervous about it), it’s just… _weird_ hearing it from Yeray. It’s such a loaded question.

“I haven’t decided yet,” she settles on, trying to keep her tone vague and dismissive. She doesn’t want to talk about this any longer, and is hoping that Yeray will just drop it. 

No such luck, though. He always chooses the most annoying of times to be in tune with her. 

“Carla, are you feeling okay?” He asks, a concerned frown beginning to form between his eyebrows. 

She sighs before a tiny, reassuring, and fake smile tilts on her lips. “I’m fine. I’ve just got a lot on my mind with this upcoming week.”

“Everything’s going to go great,” Yeray says in what he probably thinks is a comforting tone, but all Carla can think about is how _everything_ is only infinitely more complicated now. She tries not to stiffen so much when he reaches across the table and takes her hand. “But my flight for Paris leaves early tomorrow, so I’ve got the whole day off today. We should take a day trip somewhere. It can be an extension of your birthday celebration since I’m going to be missing your actual one.”

“I already told you that you don’t have to feel bad about that. We’re both working,” she reminds him, wearing a soft smile. It’s more genuine now, if only because he’s being sweet and it’s making her feel guilty. 

“I know. Consider it as a distraction then,” he says. “To help keep your mind off of the winery and work and whatever else, at least for now.”

She highly doubts it’ll work, since a year and a half of Yeray and _distractions_ hasn’t stopped her from thinking about Samuel once, but she nods regardless. 

Of course, a “day trip” to her boyfriend doesn’t mean getting out of the city and venturing to the beach in Valencia, or even visiting one of Madrid’s surrounding historical towns and strolling the cobblestone paths. To Yeray, it means shopping in Goya for stuff she neither wants or needs and then going out for an expensive dinner at a restaurant so pretentiously and dimly lit that she can hardly see the menu. The reminder that Yeray is still only trying to do something nice for her and she should therefore be tolerable, if not grateful, is enough to keep her occupied, at least. 

But the day passes by rather quickly, and once again, Carla spends her night lying sleeplessly in bed and staring up at the ceiling while Yeray is passed out cold next to her. She actually has to go to work in the morning though, so it’s made all the worse. 

No, what’s worse is how she no longer has a reason to procrastinate calling Samuel. And with the winery’s grand opening happening next Sunday, her window to get some photos of the place taken beforehand is rapidly closing. If she didn’t take so long to find a photographer, then she wouldn’t be having this problem now. But she knows why she’d been so picky with finding one in the first place. 

Samuel _had_ been the person who immediately came to mind when she first started searching for photographers. And she supposes he’d just stayed in her mind as she vetted potential ones and found tiny, insignificant problems with each of them. After all, they only had to snap some photos of some people and a venue, it wasn’t anything requiring a particular art style or even that much skill. Hell, she could probably do it herself if she didn’t have to actually host the thing. She just knows, deep down, that part of her had been holding out. 

Only, she doesn’t know what for, though. It isn’t like she’d been anticipating Samuel to resurface in her life at any given moment. 

After getting approximately four hours of sleep, Carla ultimately decides against telling her secretary that she isn’t coming in—staying home all day and getting lost in her thoughts isn’t going to help anything at all. And after sitting at her desk in her high-rise office and completing absolutely zero work because she gets lost in her thoughts anyway, she finally mutters a curse and picks up her phone. There’s no use in putting it off anymore. She taps Samuel’s number in and feels her pulse pick up as she waits for him to do the same on the other end of the line. 

As it rings, she finds herself thinking back on all the times she’d call him while she was bored at work. She used to use any excuse, really: asking him what was for dinner that evening, if they needed anything from the store and if she should pick it up on her way home; sometimes she’d just ask him how his day was, because honestly, she only wanted to hear his voice. She never told him as much, but she figures he knew. He would always sound so annoyingly _smug_ whenever he answered the phone.

But soft, too. And it wasn’t that annoying at all, really.

Carla’s pulled back to reality by the call finally connecting and that familiar voice of his saying, “Hello?”

Her breath momentarily gets caught in her throat, like she’s hearing him for the first time again. She clears it away just as quickly. 

“Hey, it’s me.” She pauses; catches herself nervously drumming her nails on her desk and flattens her hand against the cool, metal surface in an effort to stop. “Carla.”

“I know,” he says, laughing a little, but she can tell it’s out of his own nervousness and not because he’s making fun of her. She can also hear the tentative warmth in his voice when he continues, “Hey. I-I was wondering when you’d call.”

Carla bites the smile drawn to her lips by that. “Yeah, sorry. It’s just been…”

_You. It’s just been you._

“No, I get it,” Samuel says. There’s a slightly breathless quality to his voice. “Really.”

A few quiet, meaningful beats pass by. Then before she can talk some sense into herself, Carla asks, “What are you doing right now?”

“Editing the pictures from your party, actually. Why?”

“Do you want to meet up for lunch? I haven’t eaten yet, and I could fill you in on the new winery.” She’s back to fidgeting again, toying with one of the ties on her blouse this time, but she doesn’t stop herself because she knows that what she’s suggesting is unnecessary. They can talk business perfectly fine over the phone—it’s only that the need to see him again is suddenly crushing, suffocating, _blinding,_ and her selfishness from the other night is too big for her to control. She still tries, anyway. “I mean, if you aren’t too busy.”

He doesn’t immediately respond, though she can practically hear him debating whether the two of _them_ getting lunch together is smart or not. The answer is clearly no, and part of Carla silently begs him to be the rational one here. To shut her down; smack some sense into her.

Of course, a much larger part is hoping he’ll say yes.

“Yeah, I could eat something,” Samuel says after what feels like an eternity, words slow, the complete opposite of Carla’s heartbeat. “Um, where do you wanna go?”

“There’s a café a few blocks away from my office.” She at least has enough remaining intelligence to not let the sentence _I’ve always thought you’d like it_ slip from her tongue afterwards, even though she can’t count the amount of times she’s sat at one of its small, wrought iron tables and thought exactly that. It’s quaint and simple, but still charming. “I could text you the address?”

“Got it,” he says a few seconds later, after she’s hit send with fingers trembling in a combination of anticipation and adrenaline. She can hear traces of it in his own voice as he adds, “I’ll see you soon then, Carla.”

The sensibility in walking to the café in stilettos is all but nonexistent, but Carla figures she’s just following today’s theme. Besides, it’s not that long of a walk, and the heat, smoggy air, and discomfort is enough to keep her nerves in check up until the moment she rounds the street corner and finds Samuel already seated. 

He’s bouncing his leg and looking around, although he hasn’t spotted her yet. Like at the party, Carla’s struck again by how little has changed about him; although two years really isn’t that long, in spite of how it feels. It just hits her a bit harder now, seeing him in the daylight and not under the hotel bar’s exaggerated neon lighting. He seems more… _tangible._ Carla suddenly realizes that there’d miraculously been some doubt still lingering inside of her, like the past few days hadn’t been real at all. It wouldn’t be the first time she dreamt of meeting him again. 

But then his eyes finally land on her, a hesitant but nonetheless warm smile dimples on his face, and it’s cemented that this is happening. She just refuses to lean in to what Yeray said: that this is all a circumstance of fate. That’s too ridiculous, even for her. Moreover, it’s too dangerous. 

Carla returns his smile and wills herself to start moving again. As she approaches, Samuel stands and awkwardly shifts his weight, like he’s regretting getting up because now he doesn’t know what to do. It’s endearing at the same time that it also hurts—there was once a point where they weren’t unsure around each other at all, but Carla shoves away the ache in her chest at the same time that she leans in and gives him a one-armed hug. 

It’s only a simple, everyday form of greeting, and it’s over just as quickly as it happened. Still, Carla’s breath immediately stutters in her throat. She hopes he can’t hear it where her mouth is near his ear.

“Sorry I’m late,” she says when they part, wishing she could blame her breathlessness on the walk it had taken her to get here, but she knows the truth. “Have you been waiting long?”

He shakes his head as they both sit down. “Just a few minutes. Honestly, I thought I was going to be the late one. The truck wouldn’t start.”

At that, Carla looks over to where he motions at a hunk of metal parked a few yards down the curb. She doesn’t know how she hadn’t spotted it before—besides the fact that she had walked right by it, it’s a vintage, very American, caramel-colored pick-up. It isn’t exactly something you see often in Madrid. 

Carla lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Fuck, that thing is still running?”

“Barely,” Samuel chuckles with her. “And miraculously. You know Nano and I didn’t know shit about cars when we were restoring it back in school.”

“I always did say I’m surprised it never blew up on you,” Carla hums, and Samuel just tucks a bright smile into the corner of his mouth as the waiter comes by to take their drink orders. They decide to order their food as well, since Samuel looked at the menu before Carla arrived and she already knows what she wants, and when the waiter leaves, a silence briefly settles between the two of them. 

It’s not tense, though. Truthfully, it’s kind of surprising, because she would have figured that that stupid car and all of the memories they have together surrounding it would just create a dark, dense, and depressingly nostalgic cloud over the atmosphere. But Samuel no longer seems as nervous as before, and even Carla feels a little more at ease. She never forgot how easy it is being with Samuel, she just also never assumed it would still remain that way, given everything. 

“Thanks for meeting me, by the way. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything too important,” she says after a moment. 

“No, you didn’t. I was just working on the stuff from your party, like I told you.” He shyly lowers his gaze for a second, then meets her eyes once more. “It’s good to see you again.”

The waiter comes back with their drinks, so Samuel doesn’t see the soft, unbidden smile that flashes on her lips. “How are the pictures coming along?”

“Good,” he replies amicably after swallowing the sip of beer he’d taken, setting the bottle down. “I’m almost done with them, actually.”

“Are you still working from home?” Samuel nods. Now, Carla’s smile is decidedly more of a smirk. “In that closet you call an office?”

He huffs in amusement. “Yes, and it’s not a closet.” He tilts his head in consideration, squints his eyes, and laughs for real. “A regular-sized bathroom, maybe.”

“Well, you’ve always been more generous than most,” Carla says teasingly, realizing a moment too late just how true that sounds right now. But Samuel either doesn’t notice or chooses not to point that out. Probably the latter. 

“But at least my office has normal heating. It was always so hot in yours. Are you still in that one?”

“No, I’ve been upgraded. I’m in charge of the wineries now, so that means an even bigger space. But I still keep the thermostat high. You know, so—”

“Your meetings will be shorter, since nobody wants to stick around and sweat longer than they have to. I remember,” Samuel finishes, eyes glinting with warm familiarity. “But I didn’t know you’d taken the company over. Guess that explains why you’re directly handling business now.”

If only he knew why she’d taken it over. Then again, if he did, he would have done everything in his power to help her. No, _stop_ her. 

She presses her lips together and forces herself to stop thinking about that. “After my dad died, I inherited the company. My mom was never really involved in running anything, so…” Her shoulders lift and fall in a shrug. 

“Yeah, I heard about that, too. From Guzmán. I’m sorry, for what it’s worth,” he says, gentle and sincere. 

Carla sighs quietly and takes her eyes off of where they’d been watching cars and people pass by to give Samuel a small smile. “You don’t have to do that,” she tells him, voice low. “He was never kind to you.”

“Of course I do. He was still your father, Carla.”

 _That’s the problem,_ she thinks, given how her dad told her that he’d ruin Samuel’s life if she didn’t dump him for Yeray—someone with the money and means to keep their family out of ruin. Because that’s what matters to her family: wealth, power, status. If her dad had been anybody else, he wouldn’t have used Samuel against her to achieve those things. He wouldn’t have cared so much about those things at all. 

The silence drags on as Carla gets caught up in her thoughts, although Samuel’s voice gently draws her back out of them after a few moments as he changes the subject.

“This is a nice place.” He’s looking around much like he had when she first arrived, and Carla joins him, nodding her head in agreement. 

“I come here a lot.”

“With Yeray?”

And here’s the other problem: no matter how easy it still is with Samuel, that doesn’t erase all the other unspoken shit between them. Carla’s eyes lower and fix themselves on one of the terracotta tiles lining the ground, hand pausing where it had been stirring her tea, before she turns to observe him. His tone had been innocently curious, but there is still something underlying it to match the forced openness of his expression. 

Carla doesn’t blame him for it, though. It isn’t like she expected to go this entire lunch without discussing the obvious. “You don’t have to do that either, you know.”

“Do what?”

“Ask about him, act like you’re okay with all of…” Instead of finishing that sentence, she gestures vaguely. 

“I’m—” She gives him a look, and whatever he was going to say comes out as a quiet, resigned sigh instead. “I don’t know what we’re doing, Carla. Are we just working together? Are we friends? I’m just trying to follow your lead, but I can’t figure out what it is.”

Carla looks away again because she can’t figure it out, either. The inside of her head has been a complete mess since the moment Samuel lowered his camera and locked eyes with her two days ago. 

“We should just drop it then, no?” She murmurs, then promptly feels an electric shock tingle throughout her body when Samuel’s fingertips brush her knuckles where she’s gripping her tea mug. 

“No. But I need to know what you want from me.”

She certainly knows what she _wants._ Being able to have it just isn’t so simple. Her dad’s dead now, sure; she doesn’t have to worry about whatever he was going to do to Samuel anymore, and maybe it could’ve been cut and dry if this was happening back then instead of now. _Back then,_ when she was caught between grieving and being relieved. _Back then,_ before she realized that, despite it all, there was still no going back. 

It’s not like she didn’t attempt to go back as soon as she thought she was free. She showed up at Samuel’s apartment five months after they broke up, her father barely in the ground, with every apology and confession in the world thick and soupy on her tongue. But when she got there, she only found Samuel standing on the stoop with some other girl’s tongue down his throat. So Carla committed to this stupid thing with Yeray, because all she had left at that point was her mother and the wineries. 

She doesn’t even know if Samuel is still seeing that girl—or maybe even a different one. It doesn’t matter regardless, because Carla’s in too deep now. She can’t have him in the same way she wants him anymore, but…

But she still wants him in her _life,_ at least.

“I’m sorry for—everything,” she finally answers, sternum heavy with tears she refuses to let fall. “And I know that you’re allowed to not want anything to do with me. You _shouldn’t_ want anything to do with me.”

“Is that it, then? You want me to hate you?”

“I want things to be okay between us,” Carla tells him. It’s the most honest response she can give him short of everything. “It’s selfish, I know, but—”

“Carla.” She blinks, pauses, and fixes him with wide eyes. “I am very aware that I’m allowed to hate you, but the thing is, I don’t. Seriously, I don’t,” he tacks on when all she does is stare in disbelief. “And it doesn’t matter whether you’re being selfish or not, because I want us to be okay, too. Alright?”

She just continues to stare at him. The bared and honest expression on his face isn’t faked anymore. She knows because she’s never been able to understand how he does that, conveying so much in one look. 

It had always been one of her biggest weaknesses when it came to him, the way he could strip her down with a single glance. That, of course, hasn’t changed, either. 

“Alright,” she says. 

“Good. I’m not saying it isn’t going to be weird, at times, or even difficult...”

“But we can try,” she supplies. 

Samuel smiles. “Exactly.” The waiter chooses that moment to return with their food, and Carla uses the brief reprieve to collect herself. She takes a steadying sip of her tea, shoots the waiter a tiny, thankful smile, and once he’s gone, both her chest and the general air around her and Samuel is lighter. “So, tell me about this new winery?”

Carla exhales, thankful for the subject change. “I’ve been working on it for a while now. Almost a year. It’s in Cadíz.”

“That seems perfect for you,” Samuel says, chewing on a bite of the sandwich he’d ordered. “You always liked those old cities.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty excited for it,” she replies, smiling to herself. “The grand opening is the twelfth, this Sunday. Which is partially why I had an early birthday; I’m going to be too busy setting everything up to properly celebrate on Saturday, and Yeray’s supposed to be in Paris on business until next week.”

Samuel thoughtfully nods along. “Sounds like a big deal.”

“You have no idea,” Carla drily laughs around a French fry. “I never thought I’d be the one throwing these parties. I used to hate them.”

“You actually care, though,” he tells her, and to cover up the heavy sincerity in his voice, quickly asks, “And you want me to photograph the party?”

“Well, yes, but I also wanted to get some photos of the winery beforehand. Before everything gets crazy, at least. I’m supposed to be flying down to Cadíz on Wednesday, so maybe then?”

He hesitates. “Oh.”

“What is it?” Her eyebrows twitch into an apologetic frown. “Sorry, is it too last minute? I know that’s only two days from—”

“No, no! It’s just…” Samuel’s eyes shift side to side, avoiding her, and his cheeks fill with color. “Well, it’s just that I still don’t… fly.”

Now Carla’s eyebrows lift a few centimeters on her forehead. She can feel an amused smile tugging around the edges of her mouth, and she bites her lip in an attempt to stifle it. “You haven’t gotten over your fear of planes yet?”

“Excuse me, but I don’t think fear of plummeting to your death is something you just _get over,_ ” Samuel shoots back defensively, and she can’t help it anymore—a laugh bubbles out of her, though she at least tries to hide it behind her hand. 

“Samuel, it’s an hour and a half flight.”

“Until turbulence and gravity are things that no longer exist, I will not be stepping foot on an airplane,” he defiantly replies, making Carla’s laughter dissolve into uncontrollable giggles. 

“Last time I checked, teleportation _is_ something that doesn’t exist, so how are you planning on getting to Andalusia?”

He shrugs, gaze drifting over to his truck. “I don’t know. Drive, I guess.”

Carla’s eyes widen. “In _that_?” She asks dubiously. “Didn’t you just say that it’s still _barely_ functioning?”

“To be fair, it’s been barely functioning since we were seventeen and it hasn’t broken down yet,” Samuel points out. “And remember when we took that road trip to the Pyrenees? That drive’s around the same length as the one to Cadíz, and that was nothing. It’ll be fine.”

Her hair slides over her shoulder as she tilts her head in thought. They’d gone on that trip shortly after graduation. It had been spur-of-the-moment, spontaneous, unplanned; three things Carla usually despises being, and yet, it had been more than just fine. It was one of the best weeks of her life. It was the most free she ever felt, away from the city, her parents, responsibilities, and with Samuel by her side. 

“Okay, fine. But I’m coming with you.”

Samuel doesn’t quite splutter, but it’s a near thing. “What?”

She shrugs gracefully, casually—belying the way her stomach is buzzing a little now that the words have left her mouth. “It makes sense,” she argues, unsure if her brain is trying to rationalize or if her heart is simply defending itself. “I really don’t have anything to do here in the city until my flight. I was just going to hang around tomorrow, but you’ll probably be leaving then, right? So you don’t have to spend Wednesday working after driving all day?”

He hesitates for a moment before giving her a slow nod. “Yeah… I mean, I guess I’d get there early and rent a hotel room until you arrived.”

“This way, you don’t have to wait for me. Or go to a hotel. There’s an estate at the winery, you could stay in one of the rooms there—that is, if you wanted. I don’t know if you planned on coming back to Madrid afterwards and driving back up for the party later.”

“No, that would just be a waste of time and gas. I don’t have anything going on here either,” Samuel says, but he still sounds somewhat uncertain. “You’re sure about this, though?”

Carla nods. “Getting there a day earlier than I initially planned won’t hurt anyone. The opposite, probably.” He doesn’t say anything, and while she can tell she’s close to convincing him that she’s right, she also knows what’s holding him back. She gentles her voice a little. “It’s just another road trip. There’s nothing weird or difficult about that, no?”

He searches her eyes for a moment before breaking into a small smile. “We should leave in the morning,” he finally says, going along with her. 

“Nine a.m.?” Carla suggests. “I could meet you at the apartment.”

 _The apartment._ She wants to kick herself for referring to it as that, like it’s still theirs and not just _his_ now, but Samuel’s smile widens a bit more as he bobs his head in a nod. 

“Sounds good to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise there was a road trip in the works ALL ALONG


	5. Chapter 5

After sliding into an empty parking spot along the curb in front of his building, Samuel hesitates a second before stepping out of the truck. Lunch had ended twenty minutes ago, and he and Carla parted with another one of those short-but-intense hugs that she had greeted him with. But aside from that and the brief talk about whatever has and is going on between them, the entire thing had been okay. Nice, even.

It was certainly better than he thought it was going to go when she called him with the offer to meet up again, because he figured there would be no way he’d be able to sit through it without feeling as if something was being drilled into his chest. At the party, he had the benefit of shock to dampen that sensation (as well as make him agree to things that he probably shouldn’t have), but getting lunch was something different altogether.

However, he and Carla quickly fell into familiar habits as they ate their meals. The jokes, the teasing. Samuel supposes he should’ve seen it coming, honestly. Carla’s always had this ability to yank the rug out from beneath his feet with one hand while catching and steadying him with the other. It’s an ability nobody but Samuel has ever seemed to understand, probably because he’s just as capable of knocking Carla off-balance in the same way. They may not always be on the same level, but they both definitely hold the power to bring the other down to equal footing. 

That’s why agreeing to the road trip had been easier to do than he would have initially thought. Of course, he knows that there’s a huge possibility this could blow up in their faces. Carla has to know that too though, and he takes comfort in that as his eyes drift across the long front seat to the passenger’s side of the truck. He feels less pathetic knowing that he isn’t just some desperate idiot clinging to the girl who broke up with him, that they’re both clear on wanting the same thing: closure, or at least _peace_ between them. 

With that, Samuel finally gets out of the truck and heads up towards his apartment. He should probably spend more time trying to rationally sort out… well, _everything,_ but for once, he doesn’t want to overthink this. It’ll most likely just backtrack from whatever point he and Carla have tentatively come to, so as he takes the stairs up to his floor, he decides on busying himself by packing for the trip and then preparing dinner later in the evening. 

Those plans immediately dissolve when he pushes his front door open and finds Omar stretched out on his couch like he lives there. 

“Hey, dude,” his friend casually says through a mouthful of potato chips, only briefly taking his eyes off of the episode of _Real Housewives_ playing on the TV to look at Samuel. 

Furrowing his eyebrows, Samuel tosses his keys and wallet onto a nearby end table. “What are you doing here?”

“Needed to get away from the store. My dad was driving me crazy. You weren’t answering your phone, so I let myself in with the spare you gave me,” Omar says, then lifts the bowl he’s holding in offering. “Chips?”

Samuel curses lowly under his breath and digs his phone out of his pocket to find a missed call and a few texts from Omar. He’d been so caught up with lunch with Carla that he momentarily forgot the thing existed. Omar’s too preoccupied with his dumb reality show to see how Samuel winces guiltily, although he’s just glad it hadn’t been something more serious than his friend simply being fed up with his family. 

Still, he complains for the hell of it. It’s how they work.

“You can’t just break into my house and offer me my own snacks,” Samuel grumbles as he walks over and plops down onto the worn cushions next to Omar. He reaches over and scoops up a handful of chips that he shoves into his mouth before gesturing at the television. “And this stuff, seriously? You come over here to get away from arguing just to watch more of it?”

“Other people’s drama is a perfect escape from my own,” Omar replies. Samuel definitely isn’t of the same notion, but he’s stopped from saying so by Omar turning his head on the backrest, sniffing the air, and narrowing his eyes in suspicion. “You smell like a girl.”

Samuel pauses, mentally cursing himself for not considering how this whole _Carla thing_ is something he’s going to have to explain to his friends. These last couple of days have felt like some sort of separate reality, and maybe part of him just thought it would stay that way. But now it’s melding with _actual_ reality and he isn’t even remotely prepared. 

He has options, of course. He could play dumb, brush it off; he could make up some lie about going on a date with a girl too, although that would just bring more questions he’d have to make up answers for. Samuel suddenly realizes that he’s afraid for someone else to find out about the road trip and photography job, because that gives them the power to talk him out of it. Guzmán definitely would, although he would yell more than talk, probably. 

Omar isn’t Guzmán, however. And Samuel’s options don’t matter much in the end anyway, because in his few seconds of hesitation, Omar’s eyes abruptly widen in recognition. 

“No, not just any girl. You smell like _Carla._ ” Samuel doesn’t say anything, but Omar sits up and smacks him on the arm, so he must make a face that gives him away enough. “Dude, what the hell? You’re seeing her again?”

Samuel starts to shake his head. “It isn’t like that.”

“So, what, you’re just fucking then?”

“ _No,_ ” Samuel stresses, desperately trying to push that out of his mind just as much as he’s trying to get Omar to stop guessing. “Definitely not. We just had lunch together. We’re—I’m working for her, that’s all.”

He keeps his gaze straight ahead, staring at the TV but not actually watching it, because he can’t bear to see how Omar’s looking at him right now. His friend is silent for a few beats, though Samuel can feel his eyes on the side of his face. 

“Working for her,” Omar eventually echoes, voice even. There’s no obvious disbelief or disapproval, it’s just unreadable, especially with Samuel stubbornly—or perhaps shamefully—refusing to turn to him. “As in, she hired you for a job?”

“Yeah,” Samuel says with a nod. 

“And how long has this been a thing?”

“It’s not a thing, it’s…” Definitely infinitely _more_ than a thing, for sure, but Samuel still doesn’t know exactly what to call it. “We just met again two days ago. I was hired to do a surprise party, turns out that that party was Carla’s. And the kicker is that her new boyfriend is the one that hired me.”

“Shit,” Omar breathes, and now Samuel can hear the shock in that single word. 

“Yeah, and then he goes and says that Carla’s been looking for a photographer, and everything is kind of a whirlwind from there. The lunch was just supposed to be about filling me in on the details of the job,” he says, playing with his fingers. 

“‘Supposed’?”

Samuel sighs. “We talked a little, about whatever the hell is happening. Obviously, we aren’t getting back together. To be honest, I think I realized the moment I saw her today that that’s not important to me.”

Omar just gives him a look. Samuel huffs, relenting. 

“Okay, it is. But I just meant it’s not _the_ most important thing to me. It hurts knowing she’s happy with someone that isn’t me, but I am glad for her. And what I realized is that I just missed _her,_ man. Having her around, talking to her, hanging out. I think… it’ll be easier than it has been. Getting over her, I mean. If she’s still around.” He runs his hand over his face, blowing out a rough breath. “Fuck, does that even make sense?”

“It does,” Omar answers, much to Samuel’s surprise. He looks back at his best friend to see if he’s joking with him, but Omar’s expression is open and easy. “She wasn’t only your girlfriend. She was your friend too, and you lost both of those things at once. But… you’re sure working with her is smart?”

Samuel chuckles drily. “No. But I have to try,” he says, repeating Carla’s words. Then, in a hesitant voice, he admits, “I’m leaving with her tomorrow morning. We’re driving down to Cadíz together, and I’m going to stay there for a few days for the job.”

Those words settle over them as it falls quiet for a moment. Spoken aloud, it sounds like so many things. Unreal, mostly, because Samuel never would have thought he’d be here three days ago. Hell, an _hour_ ago. 

But things with Carla have always been fast, like a spark to dry kindling. He guesses he should’ve seen this coming, too.

“Look, I’m not going to give you a lecture. I’m sure you know how dangerous this could be,” Omar eventually says. “Just be careful, Samu. You don’t want to fall into her web and end up hurt again.”

A frown forms on Samuel’s features. “She’s not that cold, unfeeling predator Guzmán makes her out to be.”

“I know that. I like Carla, and I always will. But that doesn’t take away the fact that she broke up with you with nothing more than an ‘it’s not working out anymore’ after four years together. There’s a story behind that, you know there is, and knowing you, you’ll push it. And it could end up pushing her away or making her lash out in defense.”

Samuel mulls that over. _I know that you’re allowed to not want anything to do with me._ It hadn’t escaped his notice that she didn’t directly answer him when he asked if she wanted him to hate her. Neither did the guilt in her eyes and voice, although the latter had also been trembling with something he couldn’t and still can’t decipher. It was more than just an emotion. More like something unspoken. 

He’s well aware that he deserves answers. But Omar’s right, digging probably won’t get him anywhere. It’ll most likely just make the wounds bigger. And if there’s a chance they can close outright if he willingly lets it go, shouldn’t he take it? 

He has to believe that he _can_ let it go, for his sake. 

“I’ll be careful,” he eventually says, nodding seriously. He slides his eyes over to Omar. “But can you promise me something?”

“Sure,” Omar responds, eyes full of patient curiosity.

“Don’t tell Guzmán about Carla.” 

God, he’s abruptly thankful that it’s Omar he found here instead of Guzmán, because instead of the former’s cautious understanding of the whole situation, the latter would just accuse him of being pussy-whipped. It wouldn’t be the first time. _I don’t get how she can still have you by the dick after everything, Samu._

“I’m not trying to hide it from him, I just want to do it myself. And with everything going on, I’d rather not deal with that headache right now,” he adds, feeling the need to explain himself.

Omar scoffs, probably picturing the blond’s reaction in his own mind. “No, of course. I get it.” 

“Thanks, man.” Relieved, Samuel exhales another quiet sigh. That’s something he doesn’t have to worry about, at least for the moment. “So, what’s going on with you and your dad?”

“Same old shit. Though like I said, other people’s drama is a good distraction,” Omar smirks, pointedly bumping their shoulders together. Samuel chuckles, even if he can tell by the downcast of Omar’s eyes that he isn’t unaffected by his dad, he just doesn’t want to talk about it. Samuel doesn’t press. Omar didn’t scold him about Carla, so it’s the least he can do. 

Instead, he offers, “If things are bad, you can stay here while I’m gone, if you want.” He looks between the bowl of chips, Omar’s socked feet propped up on the coffee table, the _Real Housewives_ episode, and jokes, “I mean, you’ve already made yourself at home.”

Omar plops a few more chips into his mouth and gives him an innocent, wide, and eye-crinkling grin. “Your place has been my second house since we were eight. Don’t think because your mom isn’t cutting the crusts off of our sandwiches anymore that that’s changed.” 

“Okay, point. But we also used to fit in the same bed when we were eight, and that definitely has changed. You’re crashing on the couch tonight.”

“Fine, fine,” Omar says, playfully holding his hands up in surrender. He sobers after a second. “And thank you, too. I guess this means I’ll be around to say hi to Carla tomorrow. It’ll be nice to see her. You’re not the only one who’s missed her, you know.”

They eventually order pizza once the afternoon bleeds into evening and Samuel gets hungry again, but other than to pay the delivery guy, occasionally fetch beers from the fridge, or use the bathroom, neither of them hardly leaves the couch. Samuel has to admit that _Real Housewives_ can kind of be guiltily addicting. Maybe Omar has a point about outside drama, after all. 

However, that brief escape from reality means that he finally crashes into bed around one in the morning without packing for the next few days. He sets about ten alarms to wake him up at eight, because little else about Carla has changed in the last two years, and he doubts her habit of being punctual—with the exception of lunch yesterday—has either. It doesn’t even occur to him to dread how he won’t be able to sleep in for as long as he usually does. He’s actually sort of excited. 

And nervous. That’s only made abundantly clear when the doorbell rings while he’s packing at two minutes past nine the next morning, and a layer of panic sweat instantly breaks out across his palms. 

He does the same thing he did yesterday when Carla spontaneously invited him to lunch: looks at his reflection in the long mirror hanging on the wall across his bedroom, anxiously runs his fingers through his still-damp hair, and tries not to criticize what he’s wearing too much. He’d settled on a dark gray hoodie and light jeans for today, something comfortable for a long drive. He just hopes it doesn’t come off as sloppy. 

Not that Carla would care. Not that it even matters, since he shouldn’t be aiming to impress her. 

When he opens the front door, Carla’s standing there in a green bomber jacket and a pair of jeans of her own, and if that didn’t instantly make him feel better, the way she’d clearly been nervously glancing around before he arrived and her eyes darted to him _would._

“Hey,” he breathes, smiling, still finding it a little hard to believe that this is happening. 

“Hi.” She stops playing with her fingers, releases her bottom lip where it’d been caught between her teeth, and gives him a small smile, too. “Morning.”

“Good morning.” He steps to the side. “Want to come in? I’m just finishing up packing.”

He watches her out of the corner of his eye as she follows him inside, gaze a little wide as it ticks all over the place. Samuel can imagine how odd it must be for her right now, because it feels the same for him. Then again, this apartment was more or less Carla’s home for four years, and Samuel continued to live here for the two that followed after they broke up and she moved out. She didn’t have to face the hurt that came with sitting alone at the breakfast counter they used to share meals at, or the whole debacle of still expecting to see her stuff in the shower; none of that. But he can still see it in the slow bob of her throat as she swallows and takes in the apartment, and suddenly, he doesn’t know what to say. He licks his parted lips and feels weirdly compelled to apologize.

_I’m sorry I invited you in instead of meeting you downstairs. I’m sorry I never moved. I’m sorry I can’t scrub the memories from this place, because believe me, I’ve tried._

When Carla turns to him, however, all that’s left is a smile softened by bittersweet nostalgia. He thinks there might be some sort of apology reflecting in her eyes as well, but before he can be sure, it vanishes when she blinks, raises her eyebrows, and fixes her gaze on something behind him. 

“Who’s here?” Omar mumbles, half of his hair sticking up on one side as he pulls himself up from the couch and stares at the pair of them, squinty-eyed. “Is that Carla already?”

He gets up and shuffles over to them, blanket wrapped around his shoulders so that he looks like some sort of weird, half-awake bird of prey as he outstretches his arms and wraps them around Carla in a hug that also might just be an excuse to rest his head on her shoulder and doze some more. Her eyes widen again, this time in a combination of amusement and confusion to match the quiet laugh she lets out when she pats him on the back. 

“Hi, Omar. It’s been a while.”

He nods against her shoulder. “You still smell really good.”

She laughs again. Samuel gives her a slightly embarrassed look and mouths _sorry about him_ before grabbing the edge of the blanket behind Omar’s neck and yanking him back. “Dude, get off of her. You’re in your boxers.”

“Oh, please. She knows I didn’t mean it like _that,_ ” he mumbles, leaning into Samuel’s side. “Though, if anyone could turn me—”

“Okay, shut up now,” Samuel interrupts him by pushing Omar off his arm. Carla’s lips are pursed in an effort to hide her grin, and he says to her, “Let me get packed up and then we can go. There’s coffee, just—help yourself.”

It’s definitely weird telling her to help herself in a place that used to be her own, but it also settles less heavily on them with Omar there. She nods. “No rush. Thank you.”

Samuel heads back to his bedroom, feeling oddly like he’s leaving a date to be grilled by the overprotective best friend. He immediately shakes his head to himself at the thought, because even if it was a fitting analogy, it definitely wouldn’t be the smartest one. Besides, Omar and Carla had been pretty close before everything. He’s sure the soft voices carrying from the kitchen are just them catching up. 

Still, he makes quick work of packing the rest of what he needs and double-checking he hasn’t forgotten anything; despite Carla telling him not to rush, he still wants to be on the road soon. He comes back out ten minutes later, finding them seated at the small kitchen table and laughing about something he hadn’t heard. 

The familiarity of it makes his heart skip for a second. Seeing that dimpled smile on Carla’s face as she giggles at Omar’s bullshit, her hands curled around a cup of coffee—how many times did they gather just like this back then?

Samuel swallows that down as Carla notices his reappearance first. He plasters on a small smirk, remembering how they also used to tease him. “Do I want to know why you guys are laughing?”

“I was just telling Carla about your new obsession with _Real Housewives,_ ” Omar says. 

“I’m not obsessed, you wouldn’t let me put anything else on,” he shoots back, face hot. 

“Whatever you say,” Omar nods, and based on the way Carla’s eyes glimmer, Samuel doesn’t doubt that Omar is making some sort of face at her. He stands up and claps Samuel on the shoulder. “So, you’re all set?”

“Yeah.” He looks to Carla, that nervousness from earlier tugging at his gut all of a sudden. “Should we go?”

“Sure,” Carla says. “It was good to see you again, Omar.”

“You too. Keep me updated, okay? Just in case that piece of shit truck blows up halfway there.”

“Fuck you,” Samuel says, then pulls him in for a hug. “Don’t trash my apartment. And if you’re going to bring a guy over, don’t tell me about it.”

“A real ally,” Omar drawls dryly. Something in his tone changes. “Be careful.”

Samuel knows that he doesn’t just mean the drive, so when he leans back, he offers his friend a meaningful nod. “I will.”

Omar gives Carla another hug, and then he sees them out the front door. Carla’s luggage is already in the truck’s bed when they get outside; she must have put them in there before coming up, not wanting to lug them all the way up the stairs. He tucks his own bags next to hers before joining her inside the car, eyeing the way she’s looking around much like she had inside the apartment. 

“It’s a little weird, right?” He can’t help but comment, because ignoring it for the whole ride will probably just make it fester. 

“Yeah, but it’s… good. Never thought I’d see the inside of this thing ever again. I missed it.” He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he starts the engine and begins pulling away from the curb. Directions aren’t needed just yet since they have a while before they exit the city, and he knows that general route well-enough. “The same thing goes for Omar. I’m glad he was there.”

There’s an unspoken question in her voice, and Samuel answers it. “After our lunch yesterday, I came home and found him on the couch. Something happened with his dad, so… you know how it is. I told him he could stay while I was gone.”

He catches her knowing expression in his peripheral. Of course, she’d know a thing or two about a complicated relationship with a dad. 

“He was really looking forward to seeing you again,” Samuel says, trying to move past that. 

She’s quiet for a moment. “I thought he’d be, I don’t know…”

“Mad?”

“Pissed, more like.”

“Nah. He’s always been easygoing.” He wants to bring up the subject of their other friends; not Guzmán, obviously, but at least Lu and Marina, although he ultimately decides against it. Remembers that he shouldn’t _push._ “We should get to Cadíz around five if we make good time.”

“You mean, if you don’t drive like a grandma,” she says, and he can hear the teasing smirk that she’s wearing. 

“Driving the speed limit does not make me a grandma, but a law-abiding citizen,” he defends with a laugh. 

“Samuel, Interpol isn’t going to descend upon you for going five miles over the speed limit.”

He blindly reaches for the radio adapter cord and offers it out to her. “If I let you be in charge of music, will you leave me and my completely fine driving alone? Unless you want to take over, then be my guest.”

“Nope. Music’s fine.” Her fingers brush against his own as she takes the cord from him, and he grips the steering wheel a little tighter with his other hand, letting out a quiet, unsteady breath that gets swallowed up by the song Carla chooses a second later. “This puts me in charge of directions now, anyway, so it’s for the best.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He asks, more lighthearted than anything. When he glances at her, she’s got her eyes on her phone, shoulders lifting in a casual shrug, but her lips are twisted in a way that lets him know how she’s trying not to smile. 

“It means that you can get us lost on a racetrack, that’s all.”

“We have GPS,” he points out instead of trying to defend himself. 

“And yet you still argue with me whenever I tell you that it’s saying we need to make a turn,” she says, then the humorous air evaporates a bit as she pauses, probably remembering how, because of obvious reasons, that hasn’t happened in a while. 

Samuel decides not to let either of them dwell on it, chuckling softly after a moment of his own hesitation. “Fine, I promise I’ll listen to whatever you and Siri say, even though sometimes it’s clearly wrong.”

Carla smiles, tension easing out of her shoulders. The awkward tinge to the silence that falls over them gradually dissipates the longer they drive, and by the time they’re on the highway, things are better. Mostly silent, only disrupted by a question on what to get for a quick breakfast or a comment from either of them here and there, but also mostly comfortable. 

Around three hours in, Samuel realizes that it’s been quiet for a while now and looks over at Carla, only to find her dozed off with her temple leaning against the window. He huffs softly to himself instead of waking her up. Their route is pretty much straightforward at the moment, so he doesn’t need her to navigate. Besides, it hasn’t escaped him how tired she already seemed. Not just this morning, but at lunch yesterday, too. He doesn’t doubt that seeing him again had put her in the same insomnia-riddled boat as him over the past couple of days, and given how busy she’s about to be with the winery, she could use the rest. 

He lowers the music’s volume and moves his gaze back out the windshield, taking turns between watching the road and admiring the country surrounding them. It isn’t often he properly gets out of the city. Hell, he’s pretty sure the last time had been that trip to the Pyrenees right after high school, four years ago. Now here he is again, on another spur-of-the-moment road trip with Carla fast asleep beside him. 

_It’s quiet, the only sounds on the gentle wind being the occasional whir of a car passing through the trees, a rustle of an animal or chirp of a bird, and the soft brush of Samuel’s skin against his sketchbook’s thick paper as his hand steadily moves over the page. The sun is setting, casting a pinkish-orange glow over them and the clearing they’re parked in, but the incoming nightfall doesn’t make him rush. He thinks he could draw the sight lying before him with his eyes closed._

_Not that he actually does close them now, because the real thing is always better. Carla murmurs and stirs as the wind sends the few loose strands not caught beneath her (his) hood tickling across her cheek, but she still remains sleeping, facing him on her side with her hands folded beneath her head. Pillows. They’d remembered enough blankets to pile up in the bed of the truck to serve as a makeshift mattress, but of course, they forgot pillows._

_Carla hadn’t been nearly as mad about it as he thought she would be, given how_ prepared _she usually is for every occasion. She hadn’t been mad at all, actually. The peaceful aura to her right now isn’t just because she’s unconscious and therefore unguarded; it’s been with her since they left Madrid two days ago, he’s noticed. She finally seems light and free, like an eighteen year-old should be. The fresh air and time away from the city is already doing her really well._

_As Samuel tips his head back against the truck’s bed rail and inhales a lungful of that crisp, Summer evening air, he has to admit that it’s working for him too. It’s easy to forget about his job and money and, like Carla, responsibilities to his family when there are miles and miles of wilderness separating him from them. He doesn’t typically like spontaneity and uncertainty anymore than she does, but maybe it’s just what the both of them needed this whole time. He’s always felt like he’s in an entire world of their own whenever he and Carla are together, but sitting here in the back of his old truck, nestled against the Pyrenees Mountains, that feeling is pushed into something he can’t really name. It’s just something more, something even better than it already was._

_His attention shifts as he feels a different something brushing his ankle, and he peers over the top of his sketchbook, finding Carla’s arm outstretched over the gap between them. Her eyes are open in thin slits, the green of them hidden behind her lashes, but she’s awake, and gently pulling at his leg to get him to come closer. He huffs and smiles, sets his sketchbook to the side, and obediently unfurls his legs from the criss-cross position he’d been sitting in so that he’s hovering over her on his hands and knees._

_“Hey,” he beams, leaning down to capture her lips in a kiss. “How was your nap?”_

_“Mm. Good.” She pushes his hair back from his forehead, studying his face. “What were you thinking about? You looked distracted.”_

_The worried note in her voice doesn’t escape his notice, and it doesn’t take long at all for him to figure out what’s causing it, either. “Just about how I don’t ever want to leave here,” he assures her, lifting his head to take in their surroundings and feeling her palm slide down to his cheek with the movement. “You think we could make it as one of those hippie wilderness people? Say ‘fuck it’ and leave everything behind?”_

_“Neither of us know how to fish, and I can’t really picture you killing and skinning some poor animal for dinner, because I certainly won’t be doing that, so no, I do not,” she answers humorously._

_“Hippies are usually vegetarian, no?”_

_“We’ll probably end up eating some sort of poisonous berry and dying in the middle of the forest then, Samuel,” she replies, tone knowing but still amused. He chuckles too, unable to argue that, and settles beside her; rests his head on her shoulder and feels her fingers carding through his hair. In a soft, wistful voice, she adds, “Saying ‘fuck it’ and leaving everything behind doesn’t sound too bad, though.”_

_“Yeah,” he mutters in quiet agreement. He knows it probably won’t ever happen, both of them too unwilling to give up on their families just like that, even when they push them to their absolute limits and sometimes beyond. But it’s a nice fantasy all the same. “Where would we go?”_

_Carla makes a thoughtful noise, the sound vibrating beneath his ear. “You’ve never been to America.”_

_“No, but I also don’t think it’s everything people make it out to be.”_

_She chuckles softly. “Definitely not. But there are still some gems. The beaches in California, for one. Hawaii too—it’s different there than everywhere else.” Carla’s fingers idly scritch his scalp as she thinks some more. “How about the Northern Lights? I’ve always wanted to see those. We could do that in Norway. Or Iceland.”_

_“That would be cool,” he answers honestly, picturing it. “We should just tour the world. Northern Lights in Iceland, the Acropolis in Greece. The pyramids in Egypt?”_

_“All those cathedrals in Italy. The cherry blossoms in Japan,” she adds wistfully. “Traveling for months and months. It sounds nice, doesn’t it?”_

_Samuel doesn’t want to make promises that he knows he can’t keep, doesn’t want to tell her “someday, it’ll happen.” They’re tied to Madrid in so many different ways, leaden with so many responsibilities, and he definitely doesn’t make enough money delivering food besides. So he doesn’t say anything at all, just wraps his arm around her and lets that ideal wash over them in a moment of silent indulgence._

_After a few minutes, the air of melancholy fades, and Carla shifts under him. “Were you drawing when I woke up?”_

_He nods. “Seemed like a perfect time for it.”_

_“Not that I don’t think you’re a great artist, but a picture would probably do a better job at capturing all of this, don’t you think?” She asks, gesturing at all the nature around them._

_“Well, yeah. But I was drawing you,” he says, watching as her amusement morphs into something soft and gentle. “I did take a few pictures before that, though.”_

_He rolls over and reaches for his old camera where it’s tucked away in its case, turning it on and pulling up the photo album for Carla to flip through. She does so slowly and reverently, and he’s long since gotten over that nervous insecurity he used to get whenever showing his art to someone else (well, with her, at least), so he looks over her shoulder with her and patiently waits._

_“You know, Samuel, you’re really amazing at this,” she’s saying, gazing at a picture he’d taken of the sun shining through a pair of mountain peaks right when it started to set._

_The one thing he hasn’t completely gotten used to is accepting compliments, especially the type of quiet, sincere ones Carla’s prone to giving him whenever she sees something he drew or captured through the lens of a camera. Right now, he half-tucks his face into her arm, shrugs, and modestly says, “There’s nothing special to it. I’ve just been doing it for forever.”_

_“No, I don’t just mean it as a hobby. I mean, you could_ do _something with this if you wanted. The sketches, too. I know you love it.” She sets the camera down and turns her head to look at him. “Have you ever thought of it? Pursuing photography as a career? And don’t try to get all humble on me, you know you’re good enough to do it.”_

_Samuel lowers his gaze and lets out a sigh through his nose. “It’s not just about being good enough, you know that.”_

_“And you know I have the money to get you through school. You’re smart, Samuel. And talented. You could get into almost any university you wanted on your own, and I could help with the rest.”_

_It’s not the first time they’ve had this conversation. Maybe not this_ exact _one, but they’ve definitely had ones regarding Samuel’s struggle with money and Carla’s near-abundance of it. The mere idea of accepting that particular help from her has never sat right with him. It would only make him feel like the gold digger her dad thinks he is._

_Just like she can read his mind, Carla continues in a gentle voice, “It’s not you using me or being greedy, it’s not me taking pity on you. It definitely has nothing to do with my dad and whatever shit he has to say either, so get that out of your head, too.”_

_He can’t help but chuckle as her words turn stern near the end, but he still remains quiet otherwise. Carla fully sits up and straddles his waist now, intent on convincing him, gazing down at him and her hair sweeping down like a curtain because of it. Samuel stares up at her where he’s still lying on his back, seeing the eagerness in her eyes. It tugs on something in his chest, something hopeful._

_“Photography is something you want to do, not deliver food for the rest of your life. You know I don’t care what you work as, how much money you make, or any of that. But I do care about seeing you happy and not watching you work yourself to exhaustion for a job that doesn’t care about you more than you care about it. I’m not saying you completely quit your job and let me pay your way through everything, either. You could find a balance between school and work so that you can still help your mom without totally relying on me, because I know that would make you uncomfortable.” The words come out fast, excitement in her voice that wasn’t there when they were discussing traveling the world just a few minutes ago. Because unlike that, they both know that this dream is something that could happen. If only he let it._

_Carla lets out a surprised squeal as he flips them without warning, settling his hips over hers and pinning her wrists in place above her head. He keeps his grip loose though, and she experimentally twists her arms beneath them, a confused but excitedly curious gleam in her eye._

_“What are you doing?”_

_“Fighting you on it,” he replies matter-of-factly, but he’s grinning to match the same one on Carla’s own lips. “If you win, I’ll do it.”_

_Her eyes narrow playfully, and before he knows it, her knee is butting into his side and he’s rolling back over with a soft grunt. He doesn’t know how long they go at it, pushing and wrestling and laughing in the bed of his truck, going back-and-forth in a breathless tangle of limbs, but he does know they probably look absolutely ridiculous. And like they’re doing something far less innocent than simply play-fighting, but whatever, they’re parked in a secluded enough place._

_They’re both gasping for air by the time Samuel lands on his back again, his wrists now held down beneath Carla’s hands and her thighs pinching his sides. She grins down at him triumphantly, cheeks flushed, and Samuel finally gives up._

_“Okay. You win.”_

_Neither of them mention how he could have easily overpowered her at any moment. Instead, Carla beams and kisses him deeply, smiling against his lips._

_“Me wanting to help you isn’t any different than you wanting to help your mom,” she whispers once they part, eyebrows furrowed a little like she needs him to know this. “I want to help you because I love you, no other reason.”_

_“I know.” She still has his hands trapped on either side of his head, so Samuel turns his head to press a kiss on the bare sliver of skin of her wrist where the hoodie’s sleeve has ridden up her arm a bit. “I love you, t—”_

“Samuel!”

He instinctively yanks the steering wheel to the right as Carla’s voice and the sound of a car blaring its horn abruptly tugs him back down to reality, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with a tree on the side of the road. The momentum sends the truck into a grassy clearing next to an abandoned lot, and Samuel slams on the brakes before they have a chance to possibly hit anything else. 

Heart beating in his ears, he glances at Carla. “Are you okay?”

She’s already looking at him in bewilderment, although the adrenaline understandably makes her words sharper. Clearly, she’s not tired anymore. “Me? What the hell was that?”

“Are you _okay?_ ” He stresses, because even though he can’t see any obvious signs of damage, he needs to make sure. What if he and his stupid delve into old memories had gotten them— _her_ —killed? 

Carla’s expression softens, and her tone is milder when she answers, however slightly. “Yeah, I’m fine, I think. You?”

He nods, swallowing guiltily and fixing his eyes out the windshield. “I’m sorry, I…” He can’t exactly tell her what he’d been distracted by, so that dies on his tongue. “I don’t know what happened.”

“Maybe you’re just tired?” It’s only been three hours, and while that’s a long time to go without stretching your legs, he’s definitely gone longer. But Samuel nods again nonetheless.

“Maybe.”

“Samuel, look at me,” Carla says, voice completely gentle now. He sees her hand slowly enter his vision as she touches his arm, and it’s a wonder how he doesn’t jerk away instead of complying like he does. “We’re okay, alright?”

He holds her gaze for a moment, then exhales deeply. “Yeah, you’re right. I just—do you mind taking over for now? I think I just need a break.”

Carla hesitates and rolls her lips together. She avoids his eyes now, but for a different reason than he had a second ago. 

“What is it?” He asks.

Her shoulders gradually rise and fall with a deep breath. “I… don’t know how to drive.”

Samuel stares at her profile before whatever tense thing that was stuck in the car with them immediately bursts as he starts laughing. It bursts on _his_ end at least, because Carla abruptly turns her head back to him, brows pulled together in a defensive frown.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” he tries, but the word only comes out on another chuckle, “I just can’t believe you gave me all that shit about still hating planes when _you_ still haven’t even gotten your license yet.”

He’s not mocking her for that and never has, but the slight hypocrisy is just amusing. Carla must get that, because while her frown remains, it seems more for show now. 

“Hey, I’ve been really busy, okay? I don’t have time to learn, or go downtown and do all those tests. Cabify is just way more convenient. And I’m saving the environment by not having a car of my own, anyway.”

“Excuses, excuses,” Samuel lightly chides, laughing when she sucks her teeth and slaps him on the shoulder. She grins with him, and after a few seconds, he looks up and around at the empty lot stretched out before them. An idea suddenly popping in his head, he slides his eyes back to Carla. “I guess you have time now though, right?”

“What?”

“We’re ahead of schedule.” He nods his head at the clock telling them that it’s only a little past one in the afternoon. “I can teach you to drive and we’ll still get to Cadíz before five.”

“And why would I want to learn from someone who just almost crashed into a stationary tree?” She asks, but there’s no edge or derision to it, just that familiar playful teasing.

He shrugs. “Do you have a better option?”

Carla eyes him. And then she sighs deeply again, looking to the roof of the car like she’s gearing herself up for something that she knows is going to be a disaster, but Samuel’s aware that this is only for show, too. She’s wearing a wide smile. 

“Fine, but if we end up dying anyway—”

He scoffs and throws the truck in park, unbuckling his seatbelt after. “How would we die? There’s nothing to crash into besides that tree, and we’re staying here, away from the road.”

“I feel like this thing would explode like Omar said just out of spite,” she remarks, and Samuel can’t help but laugh as he gets out of the car to climb into the passenger seat. Carla’s already slid across over to the driver’s side and buckled herself in, hands primly folded in her lap. It wouldn’t look weird if she weren’t sitting behind a steering wheel, clearly not wanting to touch it. 

“Carla, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this truck isn’t one of those self-driving ones. You’re gonna have to hold the wheel,” he says, unable to keep a touch of humor out of his voice.

“I know that,” she snaps irritably and grips the peeling steering wheel in defiance. Samuel used to always find that bratty side of her adorable, and it’s unsurprising to know that that hasn’t changed. He presses his lips together to suppress his grin. 

“Like this,” he says, shifting over and repositioning her hands for her without thinking twice about it. It’d be odd to lock up and drop her like she’s burned him though, so he forces himself to remain level-headed. With his fingers around her wrists, he can feel her pulse nestled against the tips of them. “Ten and two. This is technically the legal way to hold it, but you can move your hands the more you get comfortable.”

He glances at her out of the corner of his eye, trying to deduce if the proximity is making her the opposite of comfortable. 

“Okay?” He asks, two questions in one. 

Carla nods. “Okay.”

Samuel leans back, but only a few inches, remaining in the middle seat instead of going all the way back to the other side. They aren’t touching anymore, but their shoulders could brush together if they moved at the same time; their knees, too. 

_Be careful,_ he hears Omar’s voice, and promptly speaks over it. 

“I’m gonna have you drive over to that lot so that we’re out of the grass. Think you can manage that?” 

She raises her eyebrows, gaze fixed forward. “Maybe?”

“It’ll be alright. Can you reach the pedals? Do we need to adjust the seat?”

Her expression tilts in a way that he can tell means he’s about to be made fun of. “Don’t give yourself too much credit. You’re not that tall.” It’s Samuel’s turn to look up and sigh. Carla just snickers beside him, straightening her posture and rolling her shoulders. “I can reach them just fine. What next?”

He has her check her mirrors, decides to skip over what all the switches and buttons do on the steering wheel besides the turning signals because he knows that’ll just bore her and bring on more teasing, and then he’s directing her to press down on the break and start the car again, warning her not to flood the engine. Carla’s eyes are shimmering with excitement when she looks to him for the next step, and he feels something warm in his sternum as he tells her to push down on the pedal. 

Then his heart lurches as _they_ lurch forward, Carla obviously pressing the pedal too hard, realizing it, and abruptly stomping down on the gas. “ _Slowly,_ ” Samuel chokes out, one hand braced on the dashboard. 

“You didn’t say that,” she argues, scowling. 

“I’m sorry. Slowly,” he instructs, calmer now, watching the defensive tension creep out of her. “You only need to press it down a little, more if you need it. And if you have to break, you shouldn’t slam them. Try again. You’re doing good so far, I promise. That was my fault.”

The truck slowly inches forward in the dry, yellow grass. “Like this?”

“You can go faster if you want. Just remember, slow.” Carla follows his direction, and they slightly pick up speed, coming up on the cracked asphalt of the empty parking lot. “Okay, ease off a little in this dip, it’ll get—”

The truck bounces with a concerning noise as they bound up onto the lot, and Carla giggles. “Oops.”

“Bumpy,” Samuel finishes, but he’s chuckling too.

She sends him an apologetic look. “Sorry. What do we do now?”

Samuel guides her through the basics, starting her off in slow circles. There are more bumps and lurches, and she takes the occasional turn just a tad too fast, but eventually, she gets the hang of it. He teaches her how to reverse and parallel park over the next half an hour or so, and then they aren’t really doing a lesson at all anymore, the windows rolled down and wind whipping past them once Carla gets brave enough to pick up past thirty miles per hour. 

Grinning over at her, he’s reminded of that Carla from the memory he’d been lost in earlier, and for a moment, he feels like they’re those two eighteen year-old kids again, alive and free. Her hair is streaming out the window like a golden, glittering ribbon in the sunlight, some strands of it caught in her lip gloss. She’s no longer gripping the wheel at ten and two, but has one at the top, leaning her elbow on the doorframe. A peal of thrilled laughter is spilling out of her like they’re going fast enough to be in a _Fast and Furious_ movie. 

He sort of wants to grab his camera and take a picture of her right now. That means making her pull over and ruining her fun, however, since it’s still locked up in his luggage in the back. 

And like him, he has the unshakeable gut feeling that fun isn’t something she has a lot of anymore, so he lets it be. 


End file.
